ON KIRKE WHITE.
'twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low; So the struck eagle stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own leather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart: Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion, which impelled the steel; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, Drank the last life drop from his bleeding breast.
Byron.
There is a mean in all things, certain rules Which to transgress confirms us knaves or fools.
Oh Poverty! thou art indeed omnipotent! Thou grindest us into desperation; thou confoundest all our boasted and most deep-rooted principles; thou fillest us to the very brim with malice and revenge, and renderest us capable of acts of unknown horror ! May I never be visited by thee in the fulness of thy power.
Godwin.
CONSOLATION.
Yes, there is a Being benignant above us, To shelter in sorrow, and cherish in care:
Yes, there is a power to pity and love us— A balm for the wounded, a beam for the tear;
