Walter Scott

Welcome as the flowers in May.

Her blue eyes sought the west afar For lovers love the western star.

To all to each a fair goodnight And pleasing dreams and slumbers light.

O Caledonia! stern and wild Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood Land of the mountain and the flood Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!

I cannot tell how the truth may be I say the tale as 'twas said to me.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said This is my own my native land!

To all to each a fair good night And pleasing dreams and slumbers light.

And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.

One hour of life crowded to the full with glorious action and filled with noble risks is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum.

To the timid and hesitating everything is impossible because it seems so.

The sickening pang of hope deferr'd.

One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

Is death the last sleep? No it is the last final awakening.

The happy combination of fortuitous circumstances.

Cutting honest throats by whispers.

He that climbs a ladder must begin at the first round.

Oh, many a shaft at random sentFinds mark the archer little meant!And many a word at random spokenMay soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken!

Meantime the clang of the bows and the shouts of the combatants mixed fearfully with the sound of the trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling defenceless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armour of the combatants was now defaced with dust and blood, and gave way at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifted upon the breeze like snowflakes. All that was beautiful in the martial array had disappeared, and what was now visibke was only calculated to awaken terror or compassion.