Quotes from James Beattie

He thought as a sage, though he felt like a man.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

Ah! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!

By the glare of false science betrayd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Oh when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingales song in the grove.

Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toil, serene amidst alarms; Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fames proud temple shines afar?

What is a law, if those who make it Become the forwardest to break it?

When squint-eyed Slander plies the unhallow'd tongue, From poison'd maw when Treason weaves his line, And Muse apostate (infamy to song!) Grovels, low muttering, at Sedition's shrine.

Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe.

No jealousy their dawn of love overcast, nor blasted were their wedded days with strife each season looked delightful as it past, to the fond husband and the faithful wife.

In every age and every man there is something to praise as well as to blame.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?

No jealousy their dawn of love overcast, nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; each season looked delightful as it past, to the fond husband and the faithful wife.

Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe.

Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.

Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms.

How sweet the words of Truth, breathed from the lips of Love.