Frederick George Scott Quotes

Ah God, what thunders shook these crags of yore, What smoke of battle rolled about this place, What strife of worlds in pregnant agony!
Now all is hushed, yet here, in dreams, once more We catch the echoes, ringing back from space, Of God’s strokes forging human history.

Give me splendour in my death —
Not this sickening dungeon breath,
Creeping down my blood like slime,
Till it wastes me in my prime.Give me back for one blind hour,
Half my former rage and power,
And some giant crisis send,
Meet to prove a hero's end.

Oh, curses on you hand and head, Like the rains in this wild weather
The guilt of blood is swift and dread,
Your sister's face is cold and dead,
Ye may not part whom God would wed And love hath knit together.

The pulse of our life is in tune with the rhythm of forces that beat
In the surf of the farthest star's sea, and are spent and regathered to spend.

Oh, linger, little river! Your banks are all so fair,
Each morning is a hymn of praise, Each evening is a prayer.
All day the sunbeams glitter On your shallows and your bars, And at night the dear God stills you
With the music of the stars.

One doom waits all — art, speech, law, gods, and men, Forests and mountains, stars and shining sun, —
The hand that made them shall unmake again, I curse them and they wither one by one.Waste altars, tombs, dead cities where men trod, Shall roll through space upon the darkened globe,
Till I myself be overthrown, and God Cast off creation like an outworn robe.

O mighty Soul of England, rise in splendour Out of the wrack and turmoil of the night,
And as of old, compassionate and tender, Uphold the cause of justice and of right.

Right hath the sweeter grace,
But Wrong the prettier face.

It sleeps among the thousand hills Where no man ever trod,
And only nature's music fills The silences of God.

The great world's heart is aching, aching fiercely in the night,
And God alone can heal it, and God alone give light;
And the men to bear that message, and to speak the living word,
Are you and I, my brothers, and the millions that have heard.

Clay was I; the potter Thou
With Thy thumb-nail smooth'dst my brow,
Rolltdst the spittle-moistened sands
Into limbs between Thy hands.
[...]
Strong Thou mad'st me, till at length
All my weakness was my strength;
Tortured am I, blind and wrecked,
For a faulty architect.

for me will be five hundred years of catching trains and two thousand years of remembering names.

The immortal spirit hath no bars To circumscribe its dwelling-place;
My soul hath pastured with the stars Upon the meadow-lands of space.

Like some grey warder who, with mien sedate And smile of welcome, greets the throngs who pour Between the portals of a wide-thrown door, stands guardian at our water gate,
And watches from her battlemented state The great ships passing with their living store Of human myriads coming to our shore,
Expectant, joyous, resolute, elate.

'How slayeth Sin?'
First, God is hid,
And the heart within
By its own self chid;
Then the maddened brain
Is scourged by pain
To sin as before
And more and more,
For evermore.