Walter Scott Quotes
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I was not always a man of woe.
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It is a strong castle, and strongly guarded; but there is no impossibility to brave men.
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Where's the coward that would not dareTo fight for such a land?
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Thou and I are but the blind instruments of some irresistible fatality, that hurries us along, like goodly vessels driving before the storm, which are dashed against each other, and so perish.
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Along thy wild and willow'd shore.
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Chivalry!-why, maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affection-the stay of the oppressed, the redresser of grievances, the curb of the power of the tyrant-Nobility were but an empty name without her, and liberty finds the best protection in her lance and her sword.
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Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth,When thought is speech, and speech is truth.
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November’s sky is chill and drear,November’s leaf is red and sear.
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I cannot tell how the truth may be;I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
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The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
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But with the morning cool reflection came.
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Recollect that the Almighty, who gave the dog to be companion of our pleasures and our toils, hath invested him with a nature noble and incapable of deceit.
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The Sun never sets on the immense empire of Charles V.
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O fading honours of the dead!O high ambition, lowly laid!
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Call it not vain;-they do not err,Who say, that when the Poet dies,Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,And celebrates his obsequies.
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Bluid is thicker than water.
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Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,Through all the wide Border his steed was the best.
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Steady of heart, and stout of hand.
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Some feelings are to mortals givenWith less of earth in them than heaven;And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meekIt would not stain an angel's cheek,'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head!
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And better had they ne'er been born,Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
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I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.
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A light on Marmion’s visage spread,And fired his glazing eye:With dying hand, above his head,He shook the fragment of his blade,And shouted 'Victory!-Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'Were the last words of Marmion.
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A mother's pride, a father's joy.
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Oh, Brignal banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer's queen.