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John Bartlett (1820–1905). Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. 1919.

Page 568

Percy Bysshe Shelley. (1792–1822) (continued)
    Heaven’s ebon vault
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world.
          Queen Mab. iv.
    Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present. 1
          A Defence of Poetry.
J. Howard Payne. (1792–1852)
    ’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there ’s no place like home; 2
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which sought through the world is ne’er met with elsewhere.

An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,
Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,
Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.
          Home, Sweet Home. (From the opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.”)
Seba Smith. (1792–1868)
    The cold winds swept the mountain-height,
  And pathless was the dreary wild,
And ’mid the cheerless hours of night
  A mother wandered with her child:
As through the drifting snows she press’d,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.
          The Snow Storm.
Note 1.
See Coleridge, Quotation 71. [back]
Note 2.
Home is home, though it be never so homely.—Clarke: Paræmiologia, p. 101. (1639.) [back]