AUTHORS see Books, Critics, Poems, Reading. 235 St. 52 Longfellow: Voices of the Night. Prelude Gay: Fables. Elephant and Bookseller. No author ever spared a brother; 236 In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend. 237 Pope: E. on Criticism. Pt. ii. Zine 55 An author! 'tis a venerable name! 238 Young: Epis. to Pope. Bk. ii. Line 15. Some write, confin'd by physic; some, by debt; 239 Young: Epis. to Pope. Bk. i. Line 75 Great is the dignity of authorship. 240 Tupper: Proverbial Phil. Of Authorship. Rare is the worthiness of authorship. To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 242 Dr. Johnson: Vanity of Human Wishes. Line 157 We that live to please, must please to live. 243 Dr. Johnson: Pro. on Opening Drury Lane Theatre, Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history. Describe the man, of whom His own coevals took but little note, And paint his person, character and views, As they had known him from his mother's womb. 244 Cowper: Task. Bk. iii. Line 139 None but an author knows an author's cares, Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. 245 Cowper: Prog. of Error. Line 516. Of all those arts in which the wise excel, 246 Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire: Essay on Poetry. If he describes a house, he shows the face, And skip o'er twenty pages to be gone. 247 Dryden: Art of Poetry. Canto i. Line 49. I never dare to write As funny as I can. 248 Oliver Wendell Holmes: Height of Ridiculous. St. 8. 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. 249 Byron: English Bards. Line 51. One hates an author that's all author, fellows Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs, e'en the pink But every fool describes, in these bright days, 251 St. 75. Byron: Don Juan. Canto v. St. 52 At Learning's fountain it is sweet to drink, J. G. Saxe: The Library · AUTUMN - see October, November. Thrice happy time, Best portion of the various year, in which Nature rejoiceth, smiling on her works. Lovely, to full perfection wrought! John Phillips: Cider. 2 253 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core. 254 Keats: To Autumn. Divinest autumn! who may paint thee best, Sometimes we see thee stretched upon the ground, Braiding a coronet of oaten straw and flowers. R. H. Stoddard: Autumn. Pale in her fading bowers the summer stands, The Wind moans in the Wood, The Leaf drops from the Tree; R. H. Stoddard: Ode. The cold Rain falls on the graves of the Good, Byron Forceythe Willson: Autumn Song. 257 Autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay. 258 Robert Browning: Paracelsus. Sc.i Earth is all in splendor drest; 259 Margaret E. Sangster: An Autumn Day. St. 4 With all the autumn blaze of Golden Rod; 262 Helen Hunt: Asters and Golden Roc That beautiful season the Summer of All-Saints! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. And the great sun Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him; While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. 263 Longfellow: Evangeline. Part i. ii. Line 11. Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud, 264 Alice Cary: Autumr This sunlight shames November where he grieves 265 Dante Gabriel Rossetti: Autumn Idleness. Summer is gone on swallows' wings, No more the lark, the linnet sings, Hood: Departure of Summer. I saw old Autumn in the misty morn 267 Hood: Autumn. Ho bravely Autumn paints upon the sky And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. 269 William Cullen Bryant: Death of the Flowers Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. 270 William Cullen Bryant: Third of November |