I see them walking in an air of glory

Whose light doth trample on my days,—

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmering and decays.

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695): They are all gone.

It is the glory and good of Art

That Art remains the one way possible

Of speaking truth,—to mouths like mine, at least.

Robert Browning (1812-1890): The Book and the Ring. The Pope. Line 842.

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Ode. Intimations of Immortality. Stanza 5.

The glory dies not, and the grief is past.

Samuel Egerton Brydges (1762-1837): Sonnet on the Death of Sir Walter Scott.

His form had yet not lost

All her original brightness, nor appear'd

Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess

Of glory obscur'd.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 591.

The first in glory, as the first in place.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Odyssey of Homer. Book xi. Line 441.

So may a glory from defect arise.

Robert Browning (1812-1890): Deaf and Dumb.

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn

Which once he wore;

The glory from his gray hairs gone

For evermore!

John G Whittier (1807-892): Ichabod!

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness;

And from that full meridian of my glory

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation in the evening,

And no man see me more.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

No mist obscures; nor cloud, or speck, nor stain,

Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine

Rolls through the dark blue depths;

Beneath her steady ray

The desert circle spreads

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.

How beautiful is night!

Robert Southey (1774-1843): Thalaba. Book i. Stanza 1.

Go where glory waits thee!

But while fame elates thee,

Oh, still remember me!

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): Go where Glory waits thee.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground

Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.

Theodore O'Hara (1820-1867): The Bivouac of the Dead. (August, 1847.)

To God the Father, God the Son,

And God the Spirit, Three in One,

Be honour, praise, and glory given

By all on earth, and all in heaven.

Isaac Watts (1674-1748): Doxology.

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have:

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;

Still by himself abused or disabused;

Created half to rise, and half to fall;

Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;

Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,—

The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Essay on Man. Epistle ii. Line 13.

'T is beauty calls, and glory shows the way.

Nathaniel Lee (1655-1692): Alexander the Great. Act iv. Sc. 2.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.

Charles Wolfe (1791-1823): The Burial of Sir John Moore.

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows

Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,

The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,

Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave.

The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle;

He heeds not, he hears not, he's free from all pain;

He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle;

No sound can awake him to glory again!

Leonard Heath: The Grave of Bonaparte.

Not hate, but glory, made these chiefs contend;

And each brave foe was in his soul a friend.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Iliad of Homer. Book vii. Line 364.

The glory of a firm, capacious mind.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Odyssey of Homer. Book iv. Line 262.

Thyself and thy belongings

Are not thine own so proper as to waste

Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,

Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, 't were all alike

As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd

But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends

The smallest scruple of her excellence

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Measure for Measure. Act i. Sc. 1.

O, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act i. Sc. 3.

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have:

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Laborin' man an' laborin' woman

Hev one glory an' one shame;

Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman

Injers all on 'em the same.

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891): The Biglow Papers. First Series. No. i.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,

Who rush to glory or the grave!

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): Hohenlinden.

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Ode. Intimations of Immortality. Stanza 2.

Not once or twice in our rough-island story

The path of duty was the way to glory.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. Stanza 8.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike the inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 9.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695): They are all gone.

Her track, where'er the goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame,

Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): The Progress of Poesy. II. 2, Line 10.

When Freedom from her mountain-height

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes

The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure, celestial white

With streakings of the morning light.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!

By angel hands to valour given!

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us,

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820): The American Flag.

That book in many's eyes doth share the glory

That in gold clasps locks in the golden story.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Romeo and Juliet. Act i. Sc. 3.

'T is beauty calls, and glory shows the way.

Nathaniel Lee (1655-1692): Alexander the Great. Act iv. Sc. 2.

Ye sons of France, awake to glory!

Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!

Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,

Behold their tears and hear their cries!

Joseph Rouget De L'Isle (1760-1836): The Marseilles Hymn.

To the glory that was Greece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Edgar A Poe (1811-1849): To Helen.

And who (in time) knows whither we may vent

The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores

This gain of our best glory shall be sent

T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores?

What worlds in the yet unformed Occident

May come refin'd with th' accents that are ours?

Samuel Daniel (1562-1619): Musophilus. Stanza 163.

Who track the steps of glory to the grave.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Monody on the Death of Sheridan. Line 74.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar.

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory, do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Ode. Intimations of Immortality. Stanza 5.

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have:

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): The Bard. III. 1, Line 11.

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur.

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891): The Biglow Papers. First Series. No. ii.

Who pants for glory finds but short repose:

A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Epistle i. Book ii. Line 300.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,

The sleepless soul that perished in his pride;

Of him who walked in glory and in joy,

Following his plough, along the mountain-side.

By our own spirits we are deified;

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness,

But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Resolution and Independence. Stanza 7.