Brave conquerors! for so you are
That war against your own affections,
And the huge army of the world's desires.
I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in
the battle of life,
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten who died
overwhelmed in the strife;
Not the jubilant song of the victors for whom
the resounding acclaim
Of nations was lifted in chorus whose brows
wore the chaplet of fame,
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the
weary, the broken in heart,
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a
silent and desperate part.
W. W. Story—Io Victis.
| seealso = (See also Scarborough under Failure)
| topic =
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Bis vincit qui se vincit in victoria.
He conquers twice who conquers himself in
victory.
Sykus—Maxims.
CONSCIENCE
And I know of the future judgment
How dreadful so'er it be
That to sit alone with my conscience
Would be judgment enough for me.
Chas. William Stubbs—Alone with my
conscience.
Oh! think what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods,
Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time,
Filled up with horror all, and big with death!
| author = Addison
| work = Cato. Act I. Sc. 3.
They have cheveril consciences that will stretch.
| author = Burton
| work = Anatomy of Melancholy.
| place = Pt III.
Sec. IV. Memb. 2. Subsect. 3.
Why should not Conscience have vacation
As well as other Courts o' th' nation?
Have equal power to adjourn,
Appoint appearance and return?
Butler—Hudihras. Pt. II. Canto II. L. 317.
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the Apostles would have done as they
| author = Byron
| work = Don Juan. Canto I. St. 83.
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
So much, as when we call our old debts in
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.
| author = Byron
| work = Don Juan. Canto I. St. 167.
There is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self condemn'd
He deals on his own soul.
Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's
din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
Byron—The Island. Canto I. St. 6.
The Past lives o'er again
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit
The ever-frowning Present is its image.
Coleridge—Remorse. Act I. Sc. 2.
The still small voice is wanted.
Oh, Conscience! Conscience! man's most faithful
friend,
Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend;
But if he will thy friendly checks forego,
Thou art, oh! woe for me, his deadliest foe!
Crabbe—Struggles of Conscience. Last Lines.
O dignitosa coscienza e netta,
Come t' e picciol fallo amaro morso.
O faithful conscience, delicately pure, how
doth a little failing wound thee sore!
Dante—Purgatorio. III. 8.
Se tosto grazia risolva le schiume
Di vostra eonseienza, si che chiaro
Per essa scenda della mente il fiume.
So may heaven's grace clear away the foam
from the conscience, that the river of thy
thoughts may roll limpid thenceforth.
Dante—Purgatorio. XIH. 88.
(For "river of thy thought," see also Byron and Longfellow under Woman)
| topic =
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Zwei Seelen wohnen, ach! in meiner Brust,
Die eine will sich von der andern trennen.
Two souls, alas! reside within my breast,
and each withdraws from and repels its
brother.
Goethe—Faust. I. 2. 307.
Conscience is a coward, and those faults it
has not strength to prevent, it seldom has
justice enough to accuse.
| author = Goldsmith
| work = Vicar of Wakefield. Ch. XIII.
Hie mums aeneus esto,
Nil conscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa.
Be this thy brazen bulwark, to keep a clear
conscience, and never turn pale with guilt.
Horace—Epistles. I. 1. 60.
A cleere consoience is a sure carde.
| author = Lyly
| work = Euphues. P. 207. Arbor's reprint.
(1579)
| topic =
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>He that has light within his own clear breast,
May sit i' the centre, and enjoy bright day;
But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts,
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun;
Himself is his own dungeon.
| author = Milton
| work = Comus. L. 381.
Now conscience wakes despair
That slumber'd, wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must
ensue!
| author = Milton
| work = Paradise Lost.
| place = Bk. IV. L. 23.
