The Carcanet: A Literary Album
THE
CARCANET.
A
LITERARY ALBUM,
CONTAINING SELECT PASSAGES
FROM THE MOST DISTINGUISHED
ENGLISH WRITERS
"For they're the wreath of pearls and I
The Silken cord on which they lie!"
LONDON
WILLIAM PICKERING.
MDCCCXXVIII.
PREFACE.
The following pages contain part of an album into which the writer was accustomed, some years since, to copy any passage, remarkable for its beauty or for the truth which it expressed, whether in prose or verse, and without reference to the period in which the author lived. From those gleanings this little volume has been formed, with no other attention to arrangement than to prevent the too frequent occurrence of the same writer's productions, and to intersperse the poetry with prose.
Although nothing could be less intended than to give these extracts a didactic form, they will not only be found wholly free from a line to which the most rigid moralist can object; but many of them inculcate sentiments of the purest piety and the strictest virtue, clothed in the most beautiful language. Others were selected for the admirable rules which they prescribe for human conduct, and some few for their literary excellence alone.
In a considerable degree, these sheets are specimens of the best English authors of all periods; since, selections have been made from nearly one hundred of the most distinguished writers, among whom are Bacon, Milton, Hooker, Addison, Pope, Johnson, Shakespeare, Beattie, Sheridan, Burke, Goldsmith, Sterne, Young, Cowper, Byron, Southey, Moore, Walter Scott, Campbell, Rogers, Montgomery, Hume, Junius, Canning, &c.
It is right to observe, that in those instances, where the names of the authors are not inserted, the omission arose either from the gleaner having forgotten to mark whence they were copied: or from their having been taken from anonymous productions.
To expect that every reader will equally approve of these Selections would be ridiculous, but it is hoped that all will find some which will give them pleasure. As the passages are avowedly taken from the most popular authors, they will, of course, sometimes meet with what they previously knew; but who is there that does not derive gratification, from renewing an acquaintance with one, whose merits are deeply impressed upon his memory?
March, 1828.
Greatly in peace of thought; and have my fill
Of knowledge, what this vessel can contain:
Beyond which was my folly to aspire.
Henceforth I learn, that to obey is best,
And love with fear the only God; to walk
As in his presence; ever to observe
His providence; and on him sole depend:
Merciful over all his works; with good
Still overcoming evil; and by small
Accomplishing great things; by things deem'd weak
Subverting worldly wrong; and worldly wise
By simply meek; that suffering for truth's sake,
Is fortitude to highest victory,
And, to the faithful, death the gate of life
Taught that by his example, whom I now
Milton.Acknowledge my redeemer ever blest.
THE KEEP-SAKE.
When friendship weeps the parting hour,
The simplest gift that moment given,
Long, long retains a magic power?
Can half the theft of time retrieve,
The scenes of former bliss renew,
And bid each dear idea live.
Or sever'd ringlet meet the eye:
Or India's sparkling gems disclose,
The talisman of sympathy.
On fancy's ear still peals the sound;
Nor time the potent charm shall break,
Nor loose the spell by nature bound.
The clouds hang thick and heavy o'er the deep;
And heavily, upon the long slow swell,
The vessel labour'd on the labouring sea.
The reef-points rattled on the shivering sail;
At fits, the sudden gust howled ominous,
Anon, with unremitting fury raged.
High rolled the mighty billows, and the blast
Swept from the sheeted sides the showery foam.
Vain, now, were all the seaman's homeward hopes,
Vain all their skill! .... we drove before the storm.
'Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear
Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep,
And pause at times, and feel that we are safe;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And, with an eager and suspended soul,
Woo terror to delight us; .... but to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,
To know all human strength, all human skill,
Avail not; to look around, and only see
The mountain wave incumbent, with its weight
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark, ....
O God, this is indeed a dreadful thing !
And he who hath endured the horror once,
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm
Howl round his home, but he remembers it,
Southey.And thinks upon the suffering mariner!
Man, in whatever state he may be considered, as well as in every period and vicissitude of life, experiences in religion an efficacious antidote against the ills which oppress him, a shield that blunts the darts of his enemies, and an asylum into which they can never enter. In every event of fortune it excites in his soul a sublimity of ideas, by pointing out to him the just Judge, who as an attentive spectator of his conflicts, is about to reward him with his inestimable approbation. Religion, also, in the darkest tempest appears to man as the Iris of peace, and dissipating the dark and angry storm, restores the wishedfor calm, and brings him to the port of safety.
None sees the fardel of his faults behind.
Herrick. 1648
What yet he never did for wretches like me?
Mark by what partial justice we are judg'd :
Such is the fate unhappy women find,
And such the curse entail'd upon our kind,
That man, the lawless libertine, may rove,
Free and unquestion'd through the wilds of love;
While woman, sense and nature's easy fool,
If poor weak woman swerve from virtue's rule,
If strongly charm'd, she leave the thorny way,
And in the softer paths of pleasure stray,
Ruin ensues, reproach, and endless shame,
And one false step entire damns her fame;
In vain with tears the loss she may deplore,
In vain look back to what she was before :
She sets, like stars that fall to rise no more.
And dead to virtuous feeling hide their wants
In pompous affectation.
Southerne.
Indulge no passion, and deceive no trust.
Let never man be bold enough to say,
Thus, and no farther, shall my passion stray;
The first crime past compels us into more,
And guilt grows fate, that was but choice before.
Aaron Hill.
When you are disposed to be vain of your mental acquirements look up to those who are more accomplished than yourself that you may be fired with emulation : but when you feel dissatisfied with your circumstances, look down on those beneath you, that you may learn contentment.
Does expectation load the wings of time.
Mason.
There is an outward pomp, a garb of woe,
That sometimes follows sovereigns to the tomb;
There is a soul-felt grief that sighs at home
And presses on the heart. The great, the low,
Alike feel this : and ob, lamented shade,
To thy dear loss shall every rite be paid,
And the sad tear of fond affection flow !
The minute bell that tells the fatal tale;—
She, she is gone for whom we felt elate;
Tis the fond wife, the mother, we bewail,
Young, loving, and beloved; the good, the great.
She was a nation's hope—a nation's pride :
With her that pride has fled—those hopes have died.
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be—and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,—
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,—
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,
Is a stern task of soul:—no matter,—it is taught.
Byron
Half the hopes of this life are delusive, but while they delude us into happiness, let us not affect to despise them. Imagination is only a gayer name for matter of fact; in many cases—think so, and 'tis so. If felicity be seated in the mind, it must often depend upon the fair shadows of opinion, and, one may say, without a paradox, that these are frequently substantial.
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you, never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
Breaking from your iv'ry pale,
Need not walke abroad to heare
The delightful nightingale.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
Though the winter have begun,
To benumb our arteryes,
Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
Where all rarenes still reposes;
Is a foole if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.
Welcome, welcome. &c.
And perceives your breath in kissing;
All the odours of the fields,
Never, never shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a briefe of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
Lansdowne MS. No. 777.
To kindred emotion each feeling beguiles;
The softness of sorrow no magic can borrow
To vie with the splendour of " Beauty in Smiles."
Man roves thro' creation a wandering stranger,
A dupe to its follies, a slave to its toils;
But bright o'er the billows of doubt and of danger
The rainbow of promise is " Beauty in Smiles."
Renew every flower which the tempest despoils;
So joy's faded blossom in man's aching bosom,
Revives in the sunshine of " Beauty in Smiles."
The crown of the hero, the star of the rover,
The hope that inspires, and the spell that beguiles;
The song of the poet, the dream of the lover,
The infidel's heaven, is " Beauty in Smiles."
Liberty, like Love, is as hard to keep as to win, and the exertions by which it was originally gained, will be worse than fruitless, if they be not followed up by the assiduities by which alone it can be preserved.
For those whom heaven has called from life and care;
Yet there's an earthly pang than these more deep,
Which sharpens sorrow, and which brings despair,
Yet 'tis not death, each living man must die,
Death culls the sweetest flow'r, the form most fair,
The one deep cloud which darkens every sky
Is changed affection's cold averted eye.
Meanness in the acquisition of money is generally followed by insolence in the possession.
Happiness is a theme on which all delight to expatiate. Those who have power or wealth frequently endeavour to impress others with the conviction that felicity is conferred by the possession: they are prompted to be disingenuous on the subject in order to excite envy, for to little minds envy is flattery. But how many wear the exterior of gaiety while the heart is corroded by anxiety ! Mankind are sensible of this, yet by their conduct seem to doubt the fact. They exhibit a delusive picture, and try to fancy truth has held the pencil; but increased experience only shews that the deception is real.
Came sudden on my view; it was not here
A sight of every day, as in the streets
Of the great city; and we paused and asked,
Who to the grave was going ? it was one,
A village girl; they told us she had borne
An eighteen months' strange illness; pined away
With such slow wasting as had made the hour
Of death most welcome—to the house of mirth
We held our way, and, with that idle talk
That passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the hour. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
That makes the eye turn inwards. Then I heard
Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow, and questioned of the dead again.
It was a very plain and simple tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's name,
And he who should have cherished her, far off
Sail'd on the seas, self-exiled from his home;
For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched on?,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues
Were busy with her name. She had one ill
Heavier—neglect, forgetfulness from him
Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,
But only once that drop of comfort came,
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness;
And when his parents had some tidings from him,
There was no mention of poor Hannah there;
Or 'twas the cold inquiry, bitterer
Than silence. So she pin'd and pin'd away,
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd,
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother
Omitted no kind office, and she work'd
Most hard, and with hard working, barely earu'd
Enough to make life struggle. Thus she lay
On the sick bed of poverty, so worn
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant: and the child,
Whose lisping love, perhaps, had solaced her,
With strangest infantine ingratitude,
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past
That anguish—for sue felt her hour draw on :
And 'twas her only comfort now to think
Upon the grave. ' Poor Girl !' her mother said,
' Thou hast suffered much !'—'Aye, mother; there is none
'Can tell what I have suffer'd !' she replied;
' But I shall soon be where the weary rest.'
And she did rest her soon; for it pleas'd God
To take her to his mercy.
Southey.
Did man compute
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er
Such hours 'gainst years of life—say, would he name threescore?
Byron.
Advice is
What every body wants,
What every body asks,
What every body gives,
But which nobody follows.
Love is the shadow of the morning which decreases as the day advances. Friendship is the shadow of the evening which strengthens with the setting sun of life.
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why, I send to you
This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;
I will strait whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears.
Ask me why, this fiow'r doth show
So sickly, green and yellow too;
Ask me why, the stalk is weak
And bending, though it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
Carew.What doubts and fears are in a lover.
Th' assaults ol discontent and doubt repel:
Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;
But let us hope,—to doubt, is to rebel,—
Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.
Beattie.
O ! 'tis a name of more than magic
Whose sacred power the wand'rer best can tell;
He who long distant from his native land,
Feels at her name his eager love expand;
Whether as parent, husband, father, friend,
To that dear point his thoughts, his wishes bend;
And still he owns where'er his footsteps roam,
Life's choicest blessings centre all at Home!
But 'tis by no means solid food;
And ere our honey moon was o'er,
I found we wanted something more;
This was the cause of all our trouble,
My income would not carry double.
But led away my reason's plan,
By Love, that torturer of man;
In our delirium we forgot
What is Life's unremitted lot,
That man and woman too are born,
Beneath each rose to find a thorn.
We thought as other fools have done
That Hymen's laws had made us one,
But had forgot that nature true
To her own purpose, had made us two.
There were two mouths that daily cry'd
At morn and eve to be supply'd,
Tho' by one vow we were betroth'd,
There were two bodies to be cloth'd.
Combe.
The proud heart is the first to sink before contompt—it feels the wound more keenly than any other can.—Oh, there is nothing in language that can express the deep humiliation of being received with coldness when kindness is expected—of seeing the look, but half concealed, of strong disapprobation from such as we have cause to feel beneath us, not alone in vigour of mind and spirit, but even in virtue and truth. The weak, the base, the hypocrite, are the first to turn with indignation from their fellow mortals in disgrace; and, whilst the really chaste and pure suspect with caution, and censure with mildness, these traffickers in petty sins, who plume themselves upon their immaculate conduct, sound the alarum bell at the approach of guilt, and clamour their anathemas upon their unwary and cowering prey.
Come sleep ! and fold me in thy soft embrace;
Come genial sleep! that sweetest blessing give
To die thus living, and thus dead to live.
But leave—oh leave ! the light of hope behind !
What though my winged hours of bliss have been,
Like angel-visits few and far between;
Her musing mood shall every pang appease,
And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please.
Campbell.
That snatched thee from thy sacred bed,
Where bow'd with many a pearly tear
Thy widow'd partner droops her head;
And thou, sweet Violet, modest flower,
Oh ! take my sad relenting sigh,
Nor stain thy cheek with glowing fire,
Which too much fondness bids thee die.
With rapture on your gentle form,
You might have died, unknown, unprais'd,
The victim of some ruthless storm.
When fickle love his altar rears,
Your little bells had learnt to wave,
Or sadly gemmed with kindred tears,
Had deck'd some hapless maiden's grave.
With gadding stem about my bower ?
Why with my darling myrtle wove,
In bold defiance mock my power ?
Why quit thy native garden fair,
To flaunt thy buds, thy odours fling,
And idly greet the passing air,
Or every wanton zephyr's wing?
Have nipt thy leaves of varying hue,
Since all that's lovely soon or late
Shall sickening fade, and die like you.
The fire of youth, the frost of age,
Nor wisdom's voice, nor beauty's bloom,
Th' insatiate tyrant can assuage
Or stop the hand that seal'd your doom.
And love grows firmer, for some blasts of doubt I
That gives it all its flavour.
Cowper.
Of one great father; in whatever clime
Nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life,
All tongues, all colours; neither after death
Shall we be sorted into languages
And tints, .... white, black, and tawny, Greek and Goth,
Northmen and offspring of hot Africa;
The all father he in whom we live and move,
He the indifferent judge of all, regards
Nations, and hues, and dialects alike.
According to their works shall they be judged,
When even-handed justice in the scale
Their good and evil weighs. All creeds, I ween,
Southey.Agree in this, and hold it orthodox.
The mind which, like the delicate leaves of the mimosa, shrinks from every touch, is ill calculated to solicit the assistance of the powerful, or to gain the favour of the great. The very looks of the prosperous it construes into arrogance; and it is equally wounded by the civility which appears to condescend, and by the insolence which wears the form of contempt.
The one is mercy, and the next is love :
Under the first, the sinners ever trust,
And with the last he still directs the just.
Herrick. 1648.
Every one who bears the name of a gentleman is accountable for it to his family.
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heaven.
Milton.
In memory of the Honourable Major General Charles Monson, who died at Truro of a decline, January llth, 1808, in the prime of life, and at the dawn of prosperous fortune. His heart was generous, his mind amiable, and universally endearing his social worth.—The friends who trace this memorial will drop a tear of sorrow on his grave, and the strangers who pity his fate should heave a sigh of apprehension at their own. From A Tablet In Lostwithiel Church, Cornwall.
There is more true charity in one kind tear that falls in private.for the sorrows and sufferings of others, than in a thousand guineas proudly ushered into the notice of the world in all the pomp and parade of public contribution.
WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR 1O WRITE SOME POETRY ON HER.
And sweet is the song of the soul;
When the brain is illumed by the heart's glowing fires,
And the graces the subject controul!
You ask a poor bard all your charms to rehearse,
And the task would make apathy warm;
But no pencil can picture, or pen paint in verse,
What a god must have studied to form!
The poor silly insect that thoughtlessly plays
Round the flame which is pregnant with fate,
While lur'd by its lustre, is scorched in the blaze,
And feels the fell danger too late,—
To the poet presumptuous, who dares to pourtray
The likeness of charms such as thine,
Must inhale the strong poison that lurks in the lay,
And wound his own heart with the line !
The smiles of affection are riches to me.
Mrs. Opie.
Is like the dew drop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
Scott.
Give me but the liberty of the press, and I will give to the minister a venal house of peers—I will give him a corrupt and servile house of commons—[ will give him a full swing of the patronage of his office—I will give him the whole host of ministerial influence—I will give him all the power that place can confer upon him, to purchase up submission, and overawe resistance; and yet, armed with the liberty of the press, I will go forth to meet him undismayed; I will attack with that mightier engine, the mighty fabric he has raised; I will shake down from its height corruption, and bury it beneath the ruin of the abuses it was meant to shelter. Sheridan.
The path that leads to fortune too often passes through the narrow denies of meanness, which a man of an exalted spirit cannot stoop to tread.
Conduct and equipage,
Noble by heritage,
Generous and free;
Learn'd, not pedantic,
Frolic, not frantic,
This must he be.
Meanness disdaining,
Still entertaining,
Engaging and new;
Sage, but not cynical,
Never tyrannical,
But ever true.
From An Old MS.
Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
Even pity scarce can wish it less!
Byron.
The most lasting families have only their seasons, more or less of a certain constitutional strength. They have their spring and summer sunshine glare, their wane, decline, and death: they flourish and shine perhaps for ages; at last they sicken: their light grows pale, and, at a crisis when the off-sets are withered and the old stock is blasted, the whole tribe disappears. There are limits ordained to every thing under the sun. Man will not abide in honour. Of all human vanities, family pride is one of the weakest. Reader, go thy way; secure thy name in the book of life, where the page fades not, nor the title alters nor expires—leave the rest to Heralds and the Parish Register,
BORLASE.
The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
Stands when all wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
Byron.
In vain the fruit had blushed, or serpent charm' d;
Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought:—
Nor had frail Adam fell—nor Milton wrote.
If written, but faintly appear—
Only heard in the burst of a sigh—
Only seen in the drop of a tear.
I Was induced to ascend into the belfry, where I found ropes for eight bells—those musical tones which extend the sphere of the church's influence by associations of pleasure, devotion, or melancholy, through the surrounding country. What an effective means of increasing the sympathies of religion, and exciting them by the fire-sides, and on the very pillows of the people! Who that, as a bride or bridegroom, has heard them in the conjunction with the first joys of wedded love, does not feel the pleasurable associations of their lively peal on other similar events? Who, that through a series of years has obeyed their calling chime on the sabbath mornorning, as the signal of placid feelings towards his God, and his assembled neighbours, does not hear their weekly monotony with devotion ? And who is there that has performed the last rites of friendship, or the melancholy duties of son, daughter, husband, wife, father, mother, sister, under the recurring tones of the awful tenor, or more awful dumb peal, and does not feel at every repetition of the same ceremony, a revival of his keen but unavailing regrets for the mouldering dead?
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent.
Scott.
ADDRESSED TO LORD RYRON.
Where the pines of the forest for ages have stood;
Where the eagles come forth on the wings of the storm,
And their young ones are rocked on the high Carignorm?
Know'st thou the land where the old Celtic wave,
Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave,
Where the virgins are pure as the gem of the sea,
And their spirits are light for their actions are free ?
Know'st tbou the land where the sun's lingering ray
Streaks with gold light the bright azure of day,
Whilst the cold feeble gleam it sheds on the sight,
Scarcebreaks through the gloom of the long winter's night?
'Tis the land of thy sires, 'tis the soil of thy youth,
And where first thy young heart glow'd with honor and truth;
Where the wild-fire of genius first taught thy young soul,
And thy feet, and thy fancy, soar'd free from controul.
Ah ! why does that fancy still dwell on those climes,
Where love leads to madness, and madness to crimes,
Where courage itself is more savage than brave,
Where man is a despot, and woman a slave;
Tho' soft are the breezes, and rich the perfume,
And fair are the gardens of Gul in their bloom,
Can the roses they 'twine, or the vines which they rear,
Speak peace to the heart of suspicion or fear?
Tho' the bright rays of Phoebus gild the green wave,
Oh! say can it lighten the lot of the slave,
Or all that is lovely in nature impart,
Or one virtue give to a Mussulman's heart?
Oh no!—'tis the magic which glows in thy strain
Gives soul to the action, and life to the scene;
The deeds which they do, the tales which they tell,
Enchant us alone by the aid of thy spell.
And is there no charm in thine own native earth,
Does no talisman rest on the spot of thy birth?
Are the daughters of Scotia less worthy thy care,
Less soft than Zuleika, less bright than Gulnare ?
Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave,
Than the slaves of a prince, who himself is a slave ?
Then strike the wild harp, let it swell with the strain
Of the deeds of the mighty; nor let them complain.
Their deeds, and their glory, thy lays shall prolong,
And the fame of thy country shall still live in song.
Tho' the proud wreath of victory 'round heroes may'twine,
"fis the poet that crowns them with honors divine;
E'en thy laurels, Pelides, had sank in the tomb,
Had the bard not preserved them immortal in bloom.
Beattie.
La valeur n' attend pas le nombre des années.
In the ordinary course of the world, in that intercourse of flattery and falsehood, where every one deceives and is deceived; where all appear under a borrowed form; profess friendship they do not feel, and bestow praises only .to be praised in return; men bow the lowest to those they,despise most.—But he who lives retired from this ' fcene of delusion expects no compliment from others, and beatows them only where they are deserved. All the insidious giimaces of public life are nothing compared with the inspiring smiles of friendship, which smooth the rugged road, and soften all our toils.
Of what value are all the babblings and vain boastings of society, to that domestic felicity which we experience in the company of an amiable woman, whose charms awaken the dormant faculties of the soul, and fill the mind with finer energies; whose smiles prompt our enterprizes, and whose assistance ensures success; who inspires us with congenial greatness and sublimity; who with judicious penetration, weighs and examines our thoughts, our actions, our whole character; who observes all our foibles, warns us with sincerity of their consequences, and reforms us with gentleness and affection; who by a tender communication of her thoughts and observations conveys new instruction to our minds; and by pouring the warm and generous feelings of her heart into our bosoms, animates us incessantly to the exercise of every virtue, and completes the polished perfection of our character by the soft allurements of love, and the delightful concord of her sentiments. In such an intercourse, all that is virtuous and noble in human nature, is preserved within the breast and every evil propensity dies away.
Not want of heart, but want of art
Hath made my gift so small;
Then loving heart, take hearty love,
To make amends for all:
Take gift with heart, and heart with gift,
Let will supply my want;
For willing heart, nor hearty will,
Nor is nor shall be scant
Wit's Interpreter. 1655.
That thou continuest such, owe to thyself,
That is, to thy obedience; therein stand.
This was that caution given thee; be advis'd.
God made thee perfect, not immutable;
And good he made thee; but to persevere
He left it in thy power : ordained thy will
By nature free, not overrul'd by "fate
Inextricable, or strict necessity.
Our voluntary service he requires,
Not our necessitated; such with him
Finds no acceptance, nor can find : for how
Can hearts, not free, be try'd whether they serve
Willing or no, who will but what they must
By destiny, and can no other chuse ?
Myself, and all the angelic host, that stand
In sight of God inthron'd, our happy state
Hold, as you yours, while our obedience holds;
On other surety none : freely we serve,
Because we freely love; as in our will
To love, or not, in this we stand, or fall.
Milton.
Deserve acknowledgment from noble minds.
Such thanks, as one hating to be oblig'd—
Yet hating more ingratitude, can pay,
I offer.
Souleve' par les vents, et gross! par l'orage,
Vient, et traine avec soi mille flots courroucés,
L'onde flotte apres l'onde et de l'onde est suivie;
Ainsi passe la vie,
Ainsi coulent nos ans l'un sur l'autre entasses.
Sarrazin.
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles at the brim.
Byron.
There is an ultimate point of depression, as well as of exaltation, from which human affairs return in a contrary progress, and beyond which they never pass, either in their advancement or decline. Hume.
Forgets in peace the injuries of war,
And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace.
Cowper.
In the struggle of contending interests, though peace is sometimes lost, intellectual energy is roused; and while the strife of emulation, and the restlessness of ambition disturb the quiet of society, they produce in their collision the genius that adorns it.
And girt his pure sword on his side;
So lovely he look'd, that the mother's fond fears
Were lost in the mother's fond pride.
Mrs. Opie.
Mutual affection requires to he preserved by mutual endeavours to amuse, and to meet the wishes of each other; but where there is a total regret and indifference either to amuse cr oblige, can it be wondered if affection, following the tendency of its nature, becomes indifferent, and sinks into mere civility ?
The insect queen of Eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye :
So beauty lures the full-grown child
With hue as bright, and wing as wild;
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betrayed,
Woe waits the insect and the maid,
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play or man's caprice:
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Has lost its charm by being caught.
For every touch that wooed its stay
Has brushed the brightest hues away;
'Till charm and hue and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.
With wounded wing or bleeding breast
Ah 1 where shall either victim rest ?
Can this with faded pinion soar
From rose to tulip as before ?
Or beauty blighted in an hour
Find joy within her broken bower ?
No : gayer insects fluttering by
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy shewn
To every failing but their own,
And every woe a tear can claim
Except an erring sister's shame.
Byron.
Farthest retires—an idol at whose shrine
Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least
Cowper.
Two sovereign remedies for human grief;
Religion, surest, firmest, first, and best,
And strenuous action next.
Southey.
The following little effusion of grief and tenderness is said to have been written by Lord Caithness, whose unfortunate attachment and death are yet in remembrance.
By pride and passion shook?
Or bathe the heart, but with a tear,
Despairing love has broke?
The form of peace retires;
And in that withering breast the ray
Of human hope expires!
On mere indifferent objects common bounty will shower relief, but when our bitterest foe is sunk, disarmed, and desolate,—Then! to feel the mercies of a pitying God, to raise him from the dust, and that best way to triumph over him, is heroic goodness. Thomson.
The first, best purpose of thy sojourn here;
Exert thy talent, and thro' toil or ill,
Thy course with unabated ardour steer;
Then, happy mortal, in whatever sphere
The hand that form'd has fated thee to move,
View good in all—let virtue ever cheer—
To vice and woe resist, and thou shall prove
That there's a heav'n below, which leads to that above,
Willyams.
It is the common failing of an ambitious mind to overrate itself—to imagine that it has, by the caprice of fortune, been defrauded of the high honors due to its supposed superiority. It conceives itself to have been injured'—to have fallen from its . destination; and these unfounded claims become the source of endless discontent. The mind thus disappointed preys upon itself, and compares its present lowliness with the imaginary heights for which it fancies itself to have been designed. Under the influence of these reflections the character grows sullen and reserved, detaches itself from all social enjoyments, and professes to despise the honors for which it secretly pines* Mediocrity and a common lot, a man of this disposition cannot bring himself to endure; and he wilfully rejects the little granted, because all cannot be obtained to which he had aspired.
Tho' we be doomed to sever;
'Tis like the sullen passing bell,
Of pleasure gone for ever.
Ah ! find a gentler language then,
The mournful truth to tell,
Say ' parted friends may meet again,'
But do not say farewell.
Oh do not say farewell.
It tells of future sorrow;
That »ummer smil'd on yesterday,
And winter comes to-morrow.
Around the heart it seems to throw
A melancholy spell;
Of mingled memory and woe;
Oh! do not say farewell.
Oh do not say farewell!
Religion is that hope which is the resource and the comfort of the penitent, and the sovereign balm for all the evils of life 1
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their developement have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy:
They, leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past,—they speak
Like sybils of the future; they have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain:
They make us what we are not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows—are they so?
Is not the past all shadow ? what are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dream'd
Perchancs in sleep—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.
Byron.
The language of resentment is generally more violent than the occasion demands, and he who uses it, is of all mankind the least qualified to judge impartially of its propriety; but those who suffer deeply, will express themselves strongly; those who have been cruelly attacked, will use the means of resistance which are within their reach; and observations, which appear to a general observer, bitter, and acrimonious, may perhaps wear another character to him who is acquainted with the circumstances which occasioned them.
That rudely clamours for relief—
'Tis not the querulous lament,
In which impatience seeks a vent:—
'Tis not the soft, pathetic style,
Which aims our pity to beguile;
That can to truth's keen eye impart
The ' real sorrows' of the heart!
No !—'tis the tear in secret shed
Upon the starving infant's head;
The sigh that will not be repress'd
Breathed on the faithful partner's breast;
The bursting heart, the imploring eye
To heaven upraised in agony,
With starts of desultory prayer,
While hope is quenched in despair;
The throbbing temples' burning pain,
While phrenzy's fiend usurps the brain;
These are the traits no art can borrow,
Of genuine suff'ring and of sorrow !
My senses reck with wonder sweet:
Like snow on wool, thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet.
Grief who need fear
That hath an ear?
Down let him lie
And slumbering die,
And change his soul for harmony.
Dryden.
He that hath known to change, ne'er knew to love.
When strong affection stirs her spirit up!
Southey.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS PICTON.
On the field where the might,
Of his deeds shed a light,
Through the gloom which o'ershadows the grave.
There to waste through the day,
Like a taper away,
And live 'till the spirit be dead.
On the hoof-beaten strand,
With his sword in his hand,
And a fresh-welling wound in his side.
He should bound o'er the flood,
Of his fame and his blood,
To the glory that waits him on high !
In the pride of its worth,
Shall be hallowed on earth,
And the soul shall be honoured in heaven.
Who survived thee in fight,
Won the day by the light,
That thy deeds shed around Waterloo!
Moore.
Employed whilst it conceal'd a hook :
When simple most, most to be fcar'd;
Most crafty, when no craft appear'd;
His tales no man like him could tell,
His words which melted as they fell
Might even a hypocrite deceive,
And make an infidel believe.
Again in life's loveliness view :
By the ties of attachment death only could sever,
Those ties the same hand shall
By the tear we have shed o'er the tomb of the cherished,
O'er days ne'er to bless us again—-
Let us still give a sigh to the hope that has perished,
But a smile to the hopes which remain.
Of some valued heart is bereft,
While we treasure through life their belov'd recollection,
Let us cling to the few that are left;
Down our cheek while the tear drop of anguish is stealing,
A solace e'en then it may prove,
To view the sad glance of reciprocal feeling,
When it beams from the eye that we love.
With the joys that we cherish to-day;
'Tis the pilot who steadies our vessel of sorrow,
"Tis the star which enlightens its way :
And if e'er o'er the st-a of adversity driven,
That bark has no pilot to steer .
That star beaming bright from the portals of heaven,
Shall bid us seek fortitude there.
But of all packs, no pack like poverty.
Herrick, 1648.
Conversation is the daughter of reasoning, the mother of knowledge, the breath of the soul, the commerce of hearts, the bond of friendship, the nourishment of content, and the occupation of men of wit.
My first is the lot which is destined by fate,
For my second to meet with in ev'ry state;
My third is by many philosophers reckoned,
To bring very often my first to my second.
If your first—and no doubt the position is true—
Be the lot of your second, that lot is his due;
For your second too often, alas I have heard,
Brings (shame on such monsters) your first to your third.
In the same language, the same player to heaven,
And each, remembering each in piety,
Pray for the other's welfare. Southey.
Smooth and untroubled through the flow'ry vale;
O'er the green banks once more the wild rose blowing,
Greets the young spring, and scents the passing gale.
One still too dear, first breathed his vows to thee:
Wear this, he cried, his guileful love disclosing,
Near to thy heart in memory of me.
Love's blighted flower can never bloom again.
Weep for thy fault—in heart—in mind degraded :
Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain.
Vows full of love, of innocence, and truth.
Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted :
Call back the dream that blest thy early youth.
Bright, mild, and clear, thy gentle waters flow;
Round thy green banks the spring's young blossoms flower;
O'er the soft waves the balmy zephyrs blow.
Nature in charms, to thee can make it fair.
Ill-fated love clouds all thy path, pourtraying
Years past of bliss, and future of despair.
Till time has stolen away the slighted good;
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.
COWPER.
Anil understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharg'd.
Milton.
Where'er his various tour has been;
May sigh to think how oft he found
His warmest welcome at an inn.
Shenstone.
IN ANSWER TO "FARE THEE WELL!"
To revive affection's flame,
In a bosom where it slumbers,
Shrouded now with duty's name.
Death alone its gleams remove !
Still it lives—but never, never,
Can it more awake to love.
Did unkindness quench its ray ?
Did thy wayward passions quell it ?
Harold ! let thy bosom say !
Yet the treacherous wound it gave,
As the smooth deceitful billow,
Wrecks the bark that trusts its wave.
Deaf alike to friendship's voice;
Pride elating—hope delighting,
I alone was Harold's choice.
Was that heart's unstable prize;
Now the theme of gossip story,
Thus exposed to vulgar eyes.
Fame's bright halo o'er thee spread;
Other dreams of dear delusion,
Faith and young affection led.
Could have lured me from thy side;
No! the tender bands that bound me,
Hands but thine could ne'er divide.
Late the cherished gift of heaven,
Now unclasps no more to shield me,
And—but no! thou art forgiven.
Which has felt a love like mine;
Nor our smiling infant let me,
While she bears those eyes of thine.
Once in happiest hour we met;
Now with blasted hopes we sever,
Soon our sun of joy has set.
Of the earthquake's drea.Vul reign;
And would choose the same foundation,
For his peaceful bower again?
Time does but deeper root a real grief.
What callous rock retains its crystal rill ?
Ne'er will the softened mould its liquid show;
Deep sink the waters which are smooth and still.
And mem'ry gave her beauteous form a sigh;
Whilst feeling triumph'd in my heart's warm blood
Grief drank the offering e'er it reached my eye.
For beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile;—
On nature's throbbing anguish pour relief,
Campbell.And teach empassion'd souls the joy of grief.
Things had remained for some time in this situation at once so critical and so delightful, and all parties seemed afraid by a single word to break the charm which held them in their places : but such a state is not made to endure long; the march of human time goes on; its law is to leave nothing unchanged; and while the heart would fondly cling to the fragile blis's of the present, it finds itself left behind, sighing in vain after what is gone for ever.
Veni-Vidi-Vici.
Follows the Briton's than the Roman's name :
Julius on bending millions plac'd the yoke;
Our nobler Exmouth slavery's fetters broke.
Is never nattered with such dear enchantment
As when she hears the praises of the man she loves.
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
And variable as the shade,
By the quivering aspen made:
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel thou !
Scott.
A " knowledge of the world" is another name for imputing the worst motives to the actions of others and of expecting the worst construction to be put Or aur own. This teaches us to live with our best friends, as, if at a future period they would become our greatest enemies. Men who possess too much generosity of soul either to deceive or to expect deceit, are objects of ridicule, in the eyes of those of less openness of character, because they do not act as if they were surrounded by rogues and hypocrites, when in the pleasures of conversation they happen to expose themselves to censure and animadversion.
To wear it ? who can curiously behold
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old 1
Who can contemplate Fame though clouds unfold
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ?
Byron.
Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.
Cowper.
Light ills, .... perhaps o'er hasty: summer gnats,
Finding my cheek unguarded, may infix
Their skin-d?ep sting-, to vex and irritate :
But if the wolf, or forest boar be nigh,
I am awake to danger. Even so
Bear I a mind of steel and adamant
Against all greater wrongs.
Southey.
To temper man : we had been brutes without you :
Angels were painrrd fair to look like you :
There's in you all that we believe of heaven,
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy and everlasting iove!
Otway.
To do ill, in any circumstances, is the effect of a corrupt heart. To do well, when there is nothing to fear, is the merit of a common man : but to do well, when a man exposes himself thereby to the greatest dangers, is peculiar to the truly virtuous.
Whilst the conscience wakes, and the blush of confused and trembling guilt yet varies the complexion, the sin is not of long standing, or of deep root; but when the mind seeks to disguis itself from the danger—when playing upon the edge of the precipice, the victim willingly deludes itself, and appears hard and callous to every admonitory caution, then is the moment for alarm.
The fond caress, intelligibly spake
Affection's language.
Southey.
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!
Ah, who can tell how many a soul sublime
Hath felt the influence of malignant star,
And waged with fortune an eternal war.
Beattie.
Atheism is an infernal deity, who demands of his votaries such cruel sacrifices, that every one initiated into the mysteries of his faith must m;ike a solemn and absolute renunciation of the use of his senses—shut his eyes upon the fair volume of nature—and deny to his heart the pleusureable emotions of admiration and gratitude !
The universal only God I speak,
Your God and mine, our father and our judge—
Hear ye his law, .... hear ye the perfect law
Of love. ' Do ye to others, as ye would
That they should do to you !' He bids us meet
.To praise his name, in thankfulness and joy;
He bids us in our sorrow, pray to him,
The Comforter. Love him, for he is good!
Fear him, for he is just! obey his will,
For who can bear his anger!
Southey.
When men have once resolved upon a difficult and dangerous enterprize, no time seems so tedious as the space between the de-termination and the execution.
Moments ere on the lap of bliss we sink,
Moments when o'er that bliss awhile we dwell,
And tho' by longing fir'd, forbear, and think:—
There are, when as it were upon the brink
Of rapture, feelings that themselves restrain,
That struggle—rally—and that rallying shrink,
Lest giddy reason may no more retain,
By extasy o'erwhelm'd her empire o'er the brain.
WlLLYAMS.
Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid
Of the smooth shaven prop, and neatly tied,
Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age,
For interest' sake, the living to the dead.
Cowper.
They never love so well who have never been estranged. Who is there that in absence clings not with increasing fondness to the object of its idolatry, watches not every post, and trembling with alarm, anxiety and suspense, reads not again and again every line that the hand of love has traced ? Is there a fault that is not pardoned in absence ? Is there a doubt that is not harboured or believed, however agonizing ? yet, though believed, is it not at once forgiven ? Every feeling but one is extinct in absence; every idea but one image is banished as profane.
Human policy never fixes one end of a chain round the ancle of a slave, but divine justice rivets the other round the neck of his tyrant.
We end
When scarce begun,
And ere we apprehend
That we began to live; our life is done:
Then count thy days; and if they flow too fast,
For thy dull thoughts to count; count every
Day the last! Inscription On An Old Tombstone.
On such as smile upon us; the heart must
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust
Hath weaned it from all worldlings;—
Byron.
To that sad king-craft, which in marriage vows
Linking two hearts, unknowing each of each,
Perverts the ordinance of God, and makes
Southey.The holiest tie a mockery and a curse.
The softest refuge innocence can find;
The cordial drop, heaven, in our cup has thrown,
To make the nauseous draught of life go down.
Reader.
The tablet that graces this ancient pillar, is dedicated as a small gratuity to maternal sorrow, by a disconsolate mother for an only child, born an orphan, and well acquainted with the thorny paths of affliction :—Unfortunate voyager!
He received his dismission the 18th of February, 1766, from this vale of tears, where the fluctuating scenes of sorrow are perpetually changing, the mournful voice of woe is ever heard, and care, anxiety and pain, make up the dismal variety—alas ! gentle passenger, thou may'st in thy pilgrimage through the solitary region taste this the bitterest cupof affliction. " But God tempers the wind, saith Maria, to the shorn Iamb;" for know, Oh thou hereditary heir of corruption, that Adam wf pt when the archangel recounted to him the miseries of human life " though not of woman born."
Clarissimo et amantissimo filio Gulielmo Tregartha supremum munus mater maerens posuit.
From A Tablet In St. Just's Church, Corn
When best the female heart is tried—
Pride, prejudice, and modesty
Are in the current swept to sea;
And the bold swain who plies his oar
May lightly row his bark to shore.
Scott.
When honest industry raises a family to opulence and honours, its very original lowness sheds lustre on its elevation;—but all its glory fades when it has given a wound, and denies a balsam to a man as humble and as honest as your ancestor. Colman.
The holiest ordinance of God, whereon
The bliss or bale of human life depends.
Love must be won by love, and heart to heart
Linked in mysterious sympathy, before
We pledge the marriage vow; and some there are,
Who hold, that, ere we enter into life,
Soul hath with soul been mated, each for each,
Especially ordained.
Southey.
And whilst I praise
The sparklings of thy looks, and call them rays
Takes wing;
Leaving behind him, as he flies
An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.
Do make us old,
And every sand of his fleet glass,
Increasing age as it doth pass,
Insensibly sows wrinkles here,
Where flow'rs and roses did appear.
Doth into ice expire;
Flames turn to frost,
And ere we can,
Know how our crow turns swan,
Or how a silver snow,
Springs there, where jet did grow,
Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.
Mayne. 1609.
Life is a shadow that departeth, a dream of error, the fruitless labour of imagined existence.—Russian Funeral Service.
May truant-like, awhile be gay,
May warble through the yielding air,
And revel in the blaze of day,
'Till douds, that speak approaching night,
The vagrant's wanton eye surveys;
When trembling in its homeward flight
Forgiveness seeks—forgiveness prays.
When youthful fancy loves to roam;
The blaze expir'd, the picture chang'd,
Return with anguish to my home.
Nor with that distant look reprove :
The child of error earnest pleads;
The child of error courts your love.
Blackett.
The habit of dissipating every serious thought by a succession of agreeable sensations, is as fatal to happiness as to virtue; for when amusement is uniformly substituted for objects of moral and mental interest, we lose all that elevates our enjoyments above the scale of childish pleasures; each individual learns to consider himself as the sole spectator of the great drama of life; and he sits and beholds, laughs and mocks, enjoys or yawns through a worthless existence; then sinks into the grave despised and forgotten. Anna Mar
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day,
So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign,
They car'd not though the day ne'er came again.
The moon high wheel'd the distant hills above,
Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell,
Whisper'd it lov'd the gentle visit well —
That fair-fac'd orb alone to move appear'd,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard,
In such a scene the soul oft walks abroad,
For silence is the energy of God!
Not in the blackest tempest's midnight scowl,
The earthquake's rocking, or the whirlwind's howl
Not from the crashing thunder-rifted cloud,
Does his immortal mandate speak so loud
As when the silent night around her throws
Her star-bespangled mantle of repose.
Thunder and whirlwind, and the earth's dread shake,
The selfish thoughts of man alone awake;
His lips may prate of Heaven, but all his fears
Are for himself, though pious he appears.
But when all Nature sleeps in tranquil smiles,
What sweet yet lofty thought the soul beguiles !
There's not an object 'neath the moon's bright beam,
There's not a shadow dark'ning on the stream,
There's not a star that jewels yonder skies,
Whose bright reflection on the water lies,
That does not in the lifted mind awake
Thoughts that of love and heaven alike partake;
While all its newly waken'd feelings prove
That Love is Heaven, and God the Soul of Love;
In such sweet times the spirit rambles forth
Beyond the precincts of this grov'ling earth,
Expatiates in a brighter world than this,
And plunging in the future's dread abyss,
Proves an existence separate and refin'd
By leaving its frail tenement behind.
So felt our Basil, as he sat the while,
Guiding his boat beneath the moonbeam's smile,
For there are thoughts which God alike has given
To high and low—and these are, thoughts of Heaven.
Pau'loing.
Mankind are too apt to judge of measures solely by events; and to connect wisdom with good fortune, and folly with disaster.
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;
Delirium is our best deceiver.
Each lucid interval of thought
Recalls the woes of Nature's charter,
And he that acts as wise men ought,
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr,
Byron.
THE FOLLOWING IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN THE PETITION OF THE WIFE OF AN HINDOO PRINCE, FOR THE LIFE OF HER HUSBAND, ADDRESSED TO WARREN HASTINGS.
Ma Y the blessings of thy God wait upon thee! May the sun of glory shine around thy head ! And may the gates of plenty, honor and happiness be always op;'n to thee and thine! May no sorrow distress thy days ! May no strife disturb thy nights! May the pillow of peace kiss thy cheeks, and the pleasures of imagination attend thy dreams! And when length of y ars makes thee tired of earthly joys, and th curtain of death gently closes round the last sleep of human existence, may the Angels of God attend thy bed, and take cure that the expiring lamp of life shall not receive one rude blast to hasten its extinction !
Oh ! hearken then to the voice of distress, and grant the petition of thy servant! Oh! spare the father of my children! Save the partner of rny bed ! My husband! My all that is dear! Consider, oh mi thty Sir ! that he did not become rich by iniquity, and that what he possessed was the inheritance of a long line of nourishing ancestry; who in those smiling Jays, when the thunder of Great Britain was not heard on the fertile plains of Hindostan, reaped their harvest in quiet, and enjoyed their patrimony unmolested.
Think! oh think! that the God thou worshipped delights not in the blood of the innocent. Remember thy own commandment, " Thou shalt not kill;" and by the order of Heaven give me back my Almas Ali Cawn, and take all our wealth, strip us of all our precious stones, of all our gold and silver; but take not the life of my husband. Innocence is seated on his brow, and the milk of human kindness flows round his heart: let us wander through the deserts, let us become tillers, and labourers on those delightful spots of which he was once lord and master. But spare, oh mighty Sir! spare his life : let not the instrument of death be lifted up against him, for he hath not committed any crime. Accept our treasures with gratitude : thou has them now by force. We will remember thee in our prayers, and forget that we were ever rich and powerful. My children, the children of Almas Ali, send up their petition for the life of him who gave them birth: they beseech from thee the author of their existence. From that humanity which we have been told glows in the hearts of Englishmen; by the honor, the virtue, the honesty, and the maternal feelings of thy great queen whose offspring are so dear to her, the miserable wife of thy prisoner beseeches thee to save the life of her husband, and to restore him to her arms. Thy God will reward thee, thy country must thank thee, and she now petitioning will ever pray for thee, if thou grantest the prayer of thy humble vassal,
Almassa Ali Cawn.
Glows in the brain and dances in the arteries;
"Tis like the wine some joyous guest hath quaff'd,
That glads the heart and elevates the fancy:—
Mine is the poor residuum of the cup,
Vapid and dull, and tasteless, only soiling
With its base dregs the vessel that contains it.
Old Play.
Let it be impressed upon your minds, let it be instilled into your children, that the Liberty of the Press is the palladium of all the civil, political, and religious rights of an Englishman. Junius.
And time there is for all things, Truth hath said.
Milton.
Or hearing him scandalized will not defend,
Sports with his fame, and says whate'er he can,
Merely to be thought a witty clever man.
That man's a knave; be sure beware of him.
Modesty is the only sure bait if you angle for praise.
And may itself procure what it presumes.
Heard thro' 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.
Occasional absence and moderate distance are strong cements to mutual affection; they cover those little failings which when the parties are continually together are apt to interrupt the most heartfelt attachment; and they seem to improve all those good qualities upon which that attachment is grounded.
MR. BURKE SPEAK1NO OF LOKD CHATHAM, SAID,
" Sir, the venerable age of this great man, his merited rank, his splendid qualities, his superior eloquence, his eminent services, the vast space he fills in the eye of mankind, and more than all the rest, his fall from power, which like death canonizes and sanctifies a great character, will not suffer me to censure any part of his conduct. I am afraid to flatter him; I am sure I am not disposed to blame him: let those who have bi'trayed him by their adulation, insult him by their malevolence. But what I do not presume to censure, I may have leave to lament. For a wise man he seemed to me at that time to be governed too much by general maxims. I speak with the freedom of history, and I hope without offence. One or two of these maxims flowing from an opinion, not the most indulgent to our unhappy species, and surely a little too general, led him into measures that were greatly mischievous to himself, and for that reason among others, perhaps fatal to his country; measures, the effects of which are, I am afraid, for ever incurable. He made an administration so chequered and speckled, he put together a piece of joinery so crossly indented, and so whimsically dovetailed; a cabinet so variously inlaid; such a piece of diversified mosaic; such a tesseiated pavement, without cement,—here a bit of black stone, and there a bit of white—patriots and courtiers—king's friends and republicans—Whigs and Tories —treacherous friends and open enemies;—that it was indeeia very curious shew, but utterly unsafe to touch and unsure to stand on. The colleagues whom he had assorted at the same boards stared at each other, and were obliged to ask, ' Sir your name?' —' Sir, you have the advantage of me.'—' Mr. such a one, I beg a thousand pardons.'—I venture to say it did so happen that persons who had never spoken to each other before in their lives had a single office divided between them."
He continued his speech by alluding to the close of the ministerial career of this great personage, and thus expressed himself of the authority and power Mr. Charles Townshend had possessed.
" Even then, Sir, even before this splendid orb was entirely set, and while the western horizon was in a blaze with his descending glory, on the opposite quarter of the heavens arose another luminary, and for his hour became lord of the ascendant."
Set up 'gainst God, the maker of all laws,
Who hath commanded us we should not kill,
And yet we say we must for reputation !
What honest man can either fear his own,
Or else will hurt another's reputation ?
Fear to do base and unworthy things is valour;
If they be done to us, to suffer them
Is valour too.
Ben Jonson.
Christianity teaches us the endurance of misfortune : it encourages its votaries to triumph in adversity, and inspires the soul with joy in the hour of affliction.
A Clear unblemished character comprehends not only the integrity that will not offer, but the spirit that will not submit to an injury: and whether it belongs to an individual, or to a community, it is the foundation of peace, of independence and of safety ! Private credit is wealth—public honor is security—the feather that adorns the royal bird supports his flight; strip him of his plumage and you fix him to the earth. Junius.
Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's skiff,—
Lost in the mist one moment, and the next
Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing,
As if to court the aim.—Experience watches
And has her on the wheel.
The heart is perhaps never so sensible of happiness as after a short separation from the object of its affections. If that separation has been attended with peculiar circumstances of distress or danger, every misery that has been experienced, tends by the force of contrast to increase the emotions of delight, and gives to the pleasure of reunion an inexpressible degree of tenderness.
Miss Hamilton.
Not to be captious : not unjustly fight:
'Tis to confess what's wrong, and do what's right.
And yet, he will accept a broken one.
Hope however far, to sanguine minds seems near.
Pleasures of short duration, seem to present themselves, only to punish us with regret for their departure.
It is doubtless hard to die; but it is agreeable to hope we shall not live here for ever, and that a better life will put an end to the troubles of this. If we were offered immortality on earth, who is there would accept so melancholy a gift ? What resource, what hope, what consolation would then be left us against the rigour of fortune, and the injustice of mankind?
A bloodhound staunch, she tracks our rapid step
Through the wild labyrinth of youthful frenzy,
Unheard, perchance, until old age hath tamed us;
Then in our lair, when time hath chilled our joints,
And maim'd our hope of combat, or of flight,
We hear her deep mouthed bay, announcing all
Of wrath and woe and punishment that bides us.
Old Play.
What art thou then to despise men, or what raises thee above them ? Thy services or thy virtues ? But how many obscure men more virtuous than thou, more laborious, more useful ? Thy birth ?—:We respect it: In thee we salute the shadow of thy ancestors; but is a shadow to pride itself on the homage paid to the body ? Thou wouldst have reason to pride thyself, if they gave thy name to thy ancestors, as they gave to the father of Cato the name of his son " The light ot' Rome." But what pride can a name inspire thee with which owes thee nothing, and for which thou art only indebted to chance ? Birth excites emulation in great souls, ana pride, in little ones. Hear the men who thought nobly and who knew how to value men. " There are no kings who have not had slaves for their ancestors; no slaves who have not had kings for their ancestors." Plato.—" A person is not born for our glory, what he was before is nothing to us." Seneca. —Consult thyself, enter into thyself.
Marmontel.
For that were brutish and irrational;
But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues,
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
Joanna Baillie.
OF SIR RALPH ABERCHOMBY, LORD HL'TCHINSON OBSERVED:
Were it permitted for a soldier to regret any one who has fallen in the service of his country I might be excused for lamenting him more than any other person; but it is some consolation to those who tenderly loved him, that as his life was honourable, so was his death glorious. His memory will be recorded in the annals of his country, will be sacred to every British soldier, and embalmed in the recollection of a grateful posterity.
Every virtue carried to an excess approaches its kindred vice.
An author whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack; for though all are not able to write books—all conceive themselves able to judge them. Lewis.
Let us never speak to deceive, or listen to betray.
For my own part,having taken some share on former occasions, in that which is called abuse of Bonaparte, I am not sorry to have an opportunity of saying a very few words on this subject, especially as I understand that much has been said in this place of the unmanliness of the attacks which were made on the character of the first consul, and the anxiety which it is apprehended some persons must feel to retract and disavow all that they then so illiberally uttered. Now, Sir, as I feel no sort of shame, and entertain not the smallest disposition to retract any thing that was then said, I wish to explain the principles upon which I spoke, and upon which I now maintain whatever I did then say. My principle, Sir, is simply this; there is but one thing which I never wish to forbear speaking when called upon, and which, having spoken, I can at no time feel ashamed of, nor consent to retract, disavow, or qualify, and that is the truth. If what was said of Bonaparte was untrue, that is an accusation of which I know the meaning, and which if need be, I am prepared to argue. But if it were true, I confess I am at a loss to know where the shame lies, or where the necessity of contradicting it. If indeed the nature and essence of truth were capable of being altered by subsequent events, there might be some call fur caution in uttering it, and there might be some room for qualification afterwards. But if this be not the case, I really do not comprehend what is meant by desiring us, who said what we thought of Bonaparte's past actions at the time when we were called upon to examine them, and who still think precisely what we said of them to take any shame to ourselves for our language. I at least still think as I then thought, and I do not see what ground the events of the last campaign can furnish for changing my opinion. If, for instance, in Bonaparte's invasion of Egypt, (for that was one of the points more particularly brought forward in these discussions,) there was treachery and fraud; if in his conduct towards its inhabitants there was unprovoked cruelty; if in his assumption of the turban there was impious hypocrisy, I called these qualities by their name; I call them so still; and I say that this hypocrisy, this cruelty, and this fraud have left indelible stains on his character, which all the laurels of Marengo cannot cover, nor all its blood wash away. I know Sir, there is a cautious, cowardly, bastard morality, which assumes the tone and garb of wisdom, and which prescribes to you to live with an enemy, as if he were one day to become your friend. I distrust this doctrine for one reason, because I fear the same mind which could pride itself on adopting it, would be capable of entertaining the doctrine which is the converse of it, and would prescribe living with a friend as if he were one day to become your enemy. If this be wisdom, I do not boast it; I can only say, Heaven grant me a host of such enemies, rather than one such friend.
Who reckons not himself and friend the same.
Diligence in execution is the mistress of success.
May he who refuses his protection to a defenceless woman, never taste the blessings a woman can bestow.
——— To have lost a friend by death while your mutual regard was warm and unchilled, while the tear can drop unembittered by any painful recollection of coldness, or distrust, or treachery, is perhaps an escape from a more heavy dispensation. Look round you—how few do you see grow old in the affections of those with whom their early friendships were formed !—our sources of common pleasure gradually dry up as we journey on through the vale of Bacha, and we hew out to ourselves other reservoirs from which the first companions of our pilgrimage are excluded—Jealousies, rivalries, envy, intervene to separate others from our side, until none remain but those who are connected with us, rather by habit than predilection, or who, allied more in blood than in disposition, keep the old man company in his life, that they may not be forgotten at his death—
Hcec data poena dici viventibus.
Ah ! Mr. Lovel, if it be your lot to reach the chill, cloudy, and comfortless evening of life, you will remember the sorrows of your youth as the light shadowy clouds that intercepted for a moment the beams of the sun when it was rising.True magnanimity does not consist in never failing, but in rising every time we fall.
And thinking to forget does but remind.
Her pall of transient death has spread,
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,
And none are wakeful but the dead;
No bloodless shape my way pursues,
No sheeted ghost my couch annoys,
Visions more sad my fancy views,—
Visions of long departed joys.
W. R. Spenser.
The trappings of dress I most heartily despise, and have always felt inclined to judge of the mind from the clothing of the body. The neatness and purity of the one, indicates the solidity and harmony of the other. In either sex an extravagant frippery in dress denotes a weak understanding. Miss Boylf.
Mark, it stings you for your pains;
But seize it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains.
'Tis the same with common Natures,
Use them gently—they rebel;
But be as rough as nutnlfeg graters
And the rogues obey you well.
Aaron Hill.
What a consolation is it to have a second self, from whom we have nothing secret, and into whose heart we may pour our own with perfect effusion ! Could we taste prosperity so sensibly, if we had no one to share in our joy with us? And what a relief is it in adversity, and the accidents of life, to have a friend still more affected with them than ourselves!
Reproof from knaves is flattery to the wise.
Injuries may be atoned for and forgiven, but insults admit of no compensation, they degrade the mind in its own esteem and force it to recover its level by revenge.
To depart in the minutest article from the nicety and strictness of punctilio, is as dangerous to national honor, as to female virtue. The woman who admits of one familiarity, seldom knows where to stop, or what to refuse; and when the councils of a great country give way in a single instance— when they are once inclined to submission, every step accelerates the rapidity of the descent.
Are firm, when closed by hope's investing power.
There are points where a man of honour ought not to ask, because a man of honour cannot refuse.
When they reached the Green Room, as it was called, OUlbuck placed the candle on the toilet table, before a huge mirror with a black japanned frame, surrounded by dressing boxes of the same, and looked around him with something of a disturbed expression of countenanc?. ' I am seldom in this apartment,' he said, ' and never without without yielding to a melancholy feeling—not of course on account of the childish nonsense that Grizel was telling you, but owing to circumstances of an early and unhappy attachment. It is at such momenta as these, Mr. Lovel, that we feel the changes of time. The same objects are before us—those inanimate things which we have gazed on in wayward infancy and impetuous youth, in anxious and scheming manhood—they are permanent and the same; but when we look upon them in cold unfeeling old age, can we, changed in our temper, our pursuits, our feelings—changed in our form, our limbs, and our strength, —can we b:1 ourselves called the same ? or do we not rather look back with a sort of wonder upon our former selves, as beings separate and distinct from what we now are? The philosopher, who appealed from Philip inflamed with wine, to Philip in his hours of sobriety, did not chuse a judge so different, as if he had appealed from Philip in his youth, to Philip in his old age. I cannot but be touched" with the feeling so beautifully expressed in a poem which I have heard repeated :
My heart is idly stirr'd,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what time takes away,
Than what he leaves behind.
Well, time cures every wound, and though the scar may remain and occasionally ache, yet the earliest agony of its recent infliction is felt no more." - So saying, he shook Lovel cordially by the hand, wished him good night, and took his leave.
And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleas'd
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave.:
Some chord in unison with what we hear,
Is touch'd within us and the heart replies.
Cowper.
Wherever there is much puffing there is little talent: an.d where every thing is recommended as excellent there is scarcely one thing entitled to that commendation. Bad articles require to be gilded, but the productions of genuine merit are, when 'unadorned, adorned the most.'
It is more difficult to preserve than to acquire : whatever is won may be lost; and to cease to acquire, is to begin to lose.
Without the home that plighted love endears;
Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh ! what were man ? a world without a sun.
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in
This desert drear:
That, with remorse, a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
Free will'd I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers,
That lust and pride,
The arch-fiends dearest, darkest, powers,
In state preside.
1 saw that honour's sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceived who trusted
In love or friend,
And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.
Alike a foe to noisy folly,
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away
My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing,
Supplying drink; the earth bestowing
My simple food;
But few enjoy the calm I know in
This desert rude;
This grot, than e'er I felt before in
A palace; and, with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,
Each night and morn with voice imploring,
This wish I sigh:
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorseful throb, or loose desire;
And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire,
To God I fly.
As yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at
The Hermit's prayer :
But if thou hast a cause to sigh at
Thy fault, or care;
Or hast been exiled from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
Oh! how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
Were it possible for man to be so totally wrapped up in himself, as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature, and could yet feel the tranquillity which these lines express, I allow that the situation of the Hermit would be more desirable than to live in a world so pregnant with every vice and folly. But this never can be the case. This inscription was merely placed for the ornament of the grotto; and the sentiments, and the Hermit are equally imaginary. Man was born for society. However little he may be attached to the world, he never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of mankind, the misanthrope flies from it; he resolves to become an hermit, and buries himself in the cavern of some gloomy rock. While hate inflames his bosom, possibly he may be contented with his situation : but when his passions begin to cool, when time has mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which he bore with him to solitude, think you that content becomes his companion ? Ah ! no—no longer sustained by the violence of his passions, he feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the prey of ennui and weariness. He looks round him, and finds himself alone in the universe : the love of society revives in his bosom, and he pants to return to that world which he has abandoned. Nature loses her charms in his eyes : No one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the fragment of some rock, he gazes upon the trembling waterfall with a vacant eye; he views without emotion the glory of the setting sun. Slowly he returns to his cell at evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival: he has no comfort in his solitary meal : he throws himself upon his coucli of moss, despondent and dissatisfied; and wakes only to pass a day as joyless and monotonous as the former.
That which Cajsar's soul possess'd;
That which heroes, kings have died for,
Glory—animates my breast.
Montgomery.
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have;
Thou art the torturer of the brave!
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel;
Even while they writhe beneath the smart
Of civil conflict in the heart.
Scott.
Frank in his temper, ingenuous in his sentiments, quickly offended, but easily appeased; irritated by any appearance of disrespect, but melted by a concession,a high sense of houour rendered him no more jealous of offence, than a delicate humanity made him ready for reconciliation, and anxious to spare the feelings of others.
They shrink at sense of secret sin,
A feather daunts the brave;
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise,
And proudest princes veil their eyes
Scott.Before their meanest slave.
Bear me not so swiftly o'er;
Cease thy roarings, foamy ocean,
I will tempt thy rage no more.
Varying passions wildly reign;
Love! with proud resentment meeting,
Throbs by turns with joy and pain.
Where their taunts can reach no more;
Pain! that woman's heart grows fonder,
When her dream of bliss is o'er.
Spurn'd by hope, indignant flies:
Yet, when love and hope arc vanished,
Restless mem'ry never dies.
Far across the restless deep;
Where no stranger's ear shall heed me,
Where no eye for me shall weep.
Proud my injured heart shall be,
Whilst each thought, each inclination,
Still shall prove me worthy thee.
Not one tear my cheek shall stain,
Silent grief shall be my glory,
Grief that stoops not to complain.
Still by ranging seek a cure;
Mine disdains the thought of changing,
Proudly destined to endure.
——— ere I bid adieu !
Ere my days of pain are measured,
Take the song that's still thy due.
Seek to charm thy vagrant mind,
Well I know thy inclinations,
Wav'ring as the passing wind.
Through an age of worldly woe;
How ungrateful I have proved thee,
Let my mournful exile show.
Hour by hour, I counted o'er,
Looking forward till to-morrow,
Every day I loved thee more.
Rank possess'd n i lure for me;
Nor could threats, or fears alarm me,
Save the fear of losing thee.
I have wept to see thee weep;
When relentless cares distrest thee,
I have lull'd those cares to sleep.
When with grief thy soul was press'd,
How to these fond arms I took thee,
How I clasp'd thee to my breast.
Thou could'st every pang assuage;
But when absent, nought could charm me,
Every moment seem'd an age.
Wealth and power were trifling toys,
When thou fondly didst enfold me,
Rich in love's luxuriant joys.
Welcome hostile Gallia's shore;
Now the breezes waft me over,
Now we part to meet no more!
Innocence in its crudest simplicity has some advantages over the most dexterous and practised guilt. Equivocal appearances may accidentally attend it in its progress through the world; but the very scrutiny which these appearances will excite, operates in favour of innocence, which is secure the moment it is discovered. But guilt is a poor, helpless, dependent being. Without the alliance of able', diligent, and fortunate fraud, it is inevitably undone. If the guilty culprit be obstinately silent, his silence forms a deadly presumption against him. If he speaks, talking tends to discovery; and his very defence furnishes materials towards his conviction. Junius.
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met, nor ever parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted.
Burns.
There is nothingmagnanimous in bearing disappointment with fortitude when the whol..- world is looking on. Men in such circumstances act bravely from motives of vanity; but he who in the vale of obscurity can brave adversity, who without friends to encourage, acquaintance to pity, even without hope to alleviate his misfortunes, can bihave with tranquillity, is truly great; and whether peasant or courtier, deserves admiration, and should be held up for our imitation and respect. Goldsmith.
These banished eyes shall view thy coast no more;
A mournful presage tells my heart that never,
Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.
With gentle motion ploughs the unruffled main;
I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,
And curse the waves that bear me far from Spain !
Still do the spires so well beloved appear;
From yonder craggy point the ga e of even
Still wafts my native accents to mine ear.
There in the sun, his nets the fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.
When twilight's gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply.
With honest welcome, and with smile sincere :
No threat'ning woes of present joys bereave him;
No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.
Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view,
Me who from home, and Spain an exile flying,
Bid all I value, all I love, adieu !
Sung by some mountain girl who tends her goats;
Some village swain imploring amorous pity,
Or shepherd chaunting wild his village notes.
No more my heart domestic calm must know;
Far from these joys with sighs which memory traces.
To sultry skies, and distant climes I go.
Where snakes and tigers breed I bend my way;
To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases
The yellow plague, and madd'ning blaze of day.
To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,
And brain delirious with the dog-star's rage,
With many a bitter sigh, dear land, from thee;
To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,
And feel that all thy joys are torn from me.
Recal my native country to my mind;
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind.
The river on whose banks, a child, I play'd;
My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers,
Each much regretted wood and well known glade :
Thy scenes which I am doomed no more to know,
Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.
Night speeds apace, her empire to restore;
Clouds from my sight obscure the village spires,
Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.
Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main!
So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean,
Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain !
Fresh blows the gale and high the billows swell;
Far shall we be before the break of morning:
Oh! then for ever native Spain farewell!
Society cannot exist, unless a controlling power upon will and appetite be placed somewhere; and the less there is within, the more there must be without. It is ordained in the eternal constitution of things, that men of intemperate minds cannot be free—their passions forge their fetters. >> Burke.
Juliana, And if I break them,
Perhaps you'll beat me.
Duke. No—I'll talk to you. The man that lays his hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness, is a wretch, whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward. I'll talk to you Lady, but not beat you ! Tobin.
The sacred social passions never knew:
Unskill'd to argue; in dispute yet loud;
Bold without caution; without honors proud;
In art unschool'd, each veteran rule he prized
And all improvement haughtily despised.
Falconer.
There is a college joy, to scholars known,
When the first honours are proclaim'd theii own j
There is ambition's joy, when in their race
A man surpassing rivals gains his place;
There is a beauty's joy, amid a crowd
To have that beauty her first fame allow'd;
And there's the conqucror^jDypwhen dubious held
And long the fight, he sees the foe repell'd :—
But what are these, or what are other joys,
Thatcharm kings, conquerors, beauteous nymphs, and boys,
Or greater yet, if greater yet be found,
To that delight when Love's dear hope is crown'd ?
To the first beating of a lover's heart,
When the lovid maid endeavours to impart,
Frankly, yet faintly, fondly yet in fear,
The kind confession that he holds so dear !
Crabbe.
AN EXTRAVAGANZA BY MRS. THICHNESSE, ADDRESSED TO THE BEAUTIFUL LADY COVENTRY:
Se tutti gli alberi del mondo
Fossero penne, II cielo fosse carta
II mare inchiostro, Non basterenno a descrivere La minima parte della vostra perfezione.
Mr. Burke speaking of the number of his Majesty's inferior titles remarked :
" The monarchy is divided into five several distinct principalities beside the supreme. As in the itinerant exhibitions of the stage, they are obliged to throw a variety of parts on their chief performer, so our sovereign condescends to act not only the principal, but subordinate parts. Cross a brook, and you lose the King of England, but you have some comfort in coming again under his majesty, though shorn of his beams and no more than Prince of Wales. Go to the north and you find him dwindled to a Duke of Lancaster; turn to the west of that north, and he pops upon you in the humble character of Earl of Chester. Travel a few miles on, the Earl of Chester disappears, and the king surprises you again as Count Palatine of Lancaster. You find him once more in his incognito and he is Duke of Cornwall. So that quite fatigued and satiated with this dull variety, you are infinitely refreshed when you return to the sphere of his proper splendour, and behold your amiable sovereign in his true, simple, undisguised, native character of Majesty.
The dew on his robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of E rin go bragh.
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours;
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh.
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more.
Oh! cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me,
In a mansion of peace, where no sorrow can chase me?
Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace me,
They died to defend me, or live to deplore,
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall ?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Oh! my sad heart ! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure!
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recal.
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw :
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !
Land of my fore-fathers! Erin go bragh I
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean !
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin mavournin !—Erin go bragh !
While all is not lost, all is ultimately retrievable.
Love's softest images spring up anew in solitude. The remembrance of those emotions, which the first blush of conscious tenderness, the first gent'e pressure of the hand, the first dread of interruption create, recurs incessantly. Time, it is said, extinguishes the flame of love; but solitude renews the fire, and calls forth those agents which lie long concealed, and only wait a favourable moment to display their powers. The whole course of youthful feeling again beams forth; and the mind—delicious recollection!—fondly retracing the first affection of the hearl, fills the bosom with an indelible sense of those high extasies which, for the first time, proclaim that happy discovery, that fortunate moment when two lovers first discover their mutual fondness. Zimmermann.
Big—bright—and fast, unknown to her they fell;
But still her lips refus'd to send—" Farewell:"
or in that word—that fatal word—howe'er
We promise—hope—believe—there breathes despair.
Byron.
Who never to himself hath said,
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned.
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly-dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
Scott.
Affectation naturally counterfeits those excellencies which are placed at the greatest distance from possibility of attainment, because, knowing our own defects we eagerly endeavour to supply them with artificial excellence. Johnson.
(Then how shall our sorrow be mute ?)
That those bright buds of genius would flourish,
And burst into blossoms and fruit.
For the plant which inspired them hath shed
Its foliage all green and unladed,
Ere the beauty of spring-time hath fled.
Which sparkles and sinks from the sight,
Like the leaf of the wind-shaken willow,
Though transiently, beauleously bright;
Like perfume, which dies soon as shed;
Like melody, hush'd while we listen,
Is memory's dream of the dead.
Bernard Barton.
The following is supposed to have been written by Emmett, after he was sentenced to death.
Of his faults and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say, wilt thou weep when they darken the lame,
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heav'n can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
The days of thy glory to see :
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give,
Is the pride of thus dying for thee!
Moore.
If a man has a right to be proud of any thing, 'tit a good action, done as it ought to be without any cold suggestions of interest lurking at the bottom of it. Sterne.
A breath revives him, and a breath o'erthrows.
Pope.
A JEW is a plant that seems suited for every soil, and generally thrives best where the pruning knife is most applied. «
And, noble Earl, receive my hand:'
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :
'My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation stone—
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.'
Scott.
There is a mean in all things. Even virtue itself has its stated limits, which, not being strictly observed, it ceases to be virtue.
Mild in temper, fierce in fight.
Warrior nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light.
Lewis.
In the hot clasp of victory!
From The German Of Bunker
I Know that the homage I now pay you is ofler'.ng a kind of violence to one, who is as solicitous to shun applause, as he is assiduous to deserve it.
As beaming thro' a shower of virtuous tears.
If a resolution must at last be taken, there is none so likely to be supported with firmness, as that which has been adopted with moderation.
I honour as his daughter ought;
But can I clasp it reeking red
From peasants slauirliter'd in their shed?
No! wildly while his virtues gleam
They make his passions darker seem,
And flash along his spirit high,
Like light'ning o'er the midnight sky.
But, if thoujoin'st a suitor's claim,
In serious mood, to Roderick's name;
I thrill with anguish! or, if e'er
A Douglas knew the word, with fear.
Scott.
A child the moment when it drains the breast,
A devotee when soars the host in sight,
An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
Feel rapture: but not such true joy are reaping
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.
All that it hath of life with us is living;
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved,
And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving;
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved,
Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving;
There lies the thing we love, with all its errors
And all its charms, like death without its terrors !
Byron.
He that would pass the latter part of his days with honour and decency, must, when he is young, consider that he shall one day be old; and remember, when he is old, that he once was young. Johnson.
We once have loved, though love is at an end!
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
Byron.
Then never less alone than when alone;
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves—not dead—but gone before,
He gathers round him; and revives at will
Scenes in his life—that breathe enchantment still—
That come not now at dreary intervals—
But where a light as from the blessed falls,
A light such guests bring ever-pure and holy—
Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy!
Ah! then less willing (nor the choice condemn)
To live with others than to think on them !
Rogers.
Nobility is a letter of credit given you by your country, upon the security of your ancestors, in the full security that at a proper period of life, you will acquit yourself with honor for those engaged for you.
Who thus unbidden, dares intrude
To cheer thy silent solitude,
And ask if hope dwells here.
They call thee crazy; but I think
"Tis fate has broke some tender link,
Which draws thy frequent tear.
Seems reigning in thy fever'd brain,
So sad thy look, so sad thy strain,
And sad thy mournful lay.
Beside this babbling watet-fall :
Its echoes will the tale recal,
Some future pensive day.
Yet would I fain believe it true :
But kindness cannot cure my grief,
Nor sympathy afford relief:
"Tis true that in yon lone retreat,
I sought to rest my pilgrim feet:
'Tis true I wander, heedless where,
Nor mind the chilly evening air,
Nor winter's ruder gale.
No visions strange of fancied pain;
'Tis hopeless mis'ry draws the tear,
'Tis sighs for all my heart holds dear,
That blight the form you see.
But ere its noon, became a thorn!
I'll take the harp—but may not tell
What gives its tones that mournful swell
Of feeling's extasy.
And seek its devious distant source;—
I love to hear its wildest note,
And echoes that in ether float,
Like sounds of other days!
Where life had many a placid beam!
But rapid as the river's flow,
But transient as the meteor's glow—
The bliss my life displays!
To meet the cheering summer day ?
No, stranger, no :—I've far to roam,
To seek some new, some distant home;
To seek the peace that's fled.
Where Erin boasts her hills of green:—
I thought to climb Plinlimmon's mount;
Or near the Conway's murm'ring fount,
To find an humble shed.
As loath to take a last farewell!
But I will tune my lyre afar,
Before the morrow's western star
Reflects its glittering beam.
And fondly muse of friends afar !
And crossing mountain, vale, or heath,
Imagine zephyrs are the breath
Of those who lov'd my theme.
But dare not add " remember me."
Tenderest pledge of future bliss!
Dearest tie of young connexions,
Love's first snow-drop, Virgin kiss!
Speaking silence! dumb confession!
Passion's birth! and infant's play!
Dove-like fondness! chaste concession!
Glowing dawn of brighter day!
Sorrowing joy! adieu's last action!
When lingering lips no more must join,
What words can ever speak affection
So thrilling, so sincere as thine!
Pekcv, thou hast seen the musk rose newly blown, disclose its bashful beauties to the sun 'till an unfriendly chilling storm descended, crushed all its blushing glories in their pride, bowed its fair head, and blasted all its sweetness.
So drooped the maid beneath the cruel weight of my sad tale.
The following inscription is placed on an urn in the wilderness of Mount Edgcombe to the memory of the late Countess :
To the memory of her whose taste embellished, whose presence added charms to
these retreats,
(Herself their brightest ornament.) This urn is erected in the spot she loved.
The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.
Scott.
The extreme partialities of friendship, though founded on error should never be considered as the effusions of flattery, but as proofs of affection: thus what too frequently excites vanity should strengthen esteem.
The desire of pleasing is to the mind, what dress is to the body. Voltaire.
ON INGRATITUDE.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one, All others may pass for virtues in him.
As in the storm that pours destruction round, Is here and there a ship in safety found; So, in the storms of life some days appear More blest and bright for the preceding fear; These times of pleasure that in life arise, Like spots in deserts, that delight, surprize, And to our wearied senses give the more, For all the waste behind us and before.
Crabbe.
Not to forget our misfortunes is in a manner to merit them.
There surely is some guiding power,
Which rightly suffers wrong— Gives vice to bloom its little hour—
But virtue, late and long !
Hypocrisy is the necessary burthen of villainy.— Affectation the chosen trappings of folly.
The fallowing Parody on Lord Byron's well-known lines " Weep daughter of a Royal line," was written on his lordship's unfortunate domestic misfortunes, and addressed to his infant daughter:
Weep, daughter of a noble line, A sire's disgrace, his fame's decay;
Ah ! happy if each tear of thine Could wash a father's fault away.
Weep—for thy tears are virtue's tears, Shed for a parent's wanton wiles,
And be each drop in future years, Repaid thee by a mother's smiles.
THE COMEDY OF LIFE.
The world is the stage; men are the actors; the events of life form the piece; fortune distributes the parts; religion governs the performance; philosophers are the spectators; the opulent occupy the boxes; the powerful the amphitheatre; and the pit is for the unfortunate; the disappointed snuff the candles; folly composes the music; and time draws the curtain.
Thou knowest that when we fight to save our country, we fight the cause of heaven; the man who falls, falls hallowed, falls a victim to the Gods for them, and to their altars. Mason.
But the great ocean's solemn sound,
Feels not as if the eternal God
Were speaking in that dread abode 1
An answering voice seems kindly given,
From the multitude of stars in heaven:
And oft a smile of moonlight fair,
To perfect peace has changed despair.
Low as we are, we blend our fate
With things so beautifully great.
And though opprest with heaviest grief,
From nature's bliss we draw relief,
Assured that God's most gracious eye
Beholds us in our misery,
And sends mild sound and lovely sight,
To change that misery to delight.
Wilson.
In the bottle discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and bashfulness for confidence.
Johnson.
How sweet when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose:
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is and truth that seems
Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is burs that sages taught,
That poets sang or heroes wrought.
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were Angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things of earth!
On the ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.
Brooding on hours mis-spent,
To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus midst his slumbering host
Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost.
Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole,
Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.
Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away,
So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath
From sin and suffering cease;
Think of Heaven's bliss and give the sign
To parting friends :—such death be mine!
Montgomery.
When first we practice to deceive.
Scott.
Uncle Toby—He shall not die, by God!
The accusing spirit which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the recording angel as he wrote it down dropped a tear on the word, and blotted it out for ever. Sterne.
He doubts conviction and relies on form.
Falconer.
When love or honour's weigh'd with death.
Scott.
Violent asseverations, or affected bluntness, look not more suspicious than strained sanctity, or over offended modesty. Zimmermann.
Of those around thee, homage pay;
But wilt thou never kindly deign,
To think of him that's far away ?
Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile,
For weary years I may not see;
But wilt thou not sometimes the while,
My sister dear, remember me?
Surrounded by the gay and fair,
And thou art fairest of them all,
Oh think not, think not of me there.
But when the thoughtless crowd is gone,
And hushed the voice of senseless glee,
And all is silent, still, and lone,
And thou art sad,—remember me!
When in his orbit fair, and high,
The morning's glowing charioteer,
Rides proudly up the blushing sky;
But when the waning moon-beam sleeps,
At midnight on the lonely lea,
And nature's pensive spirit weeps,
In all her dews—remember me!
In Flora's gay and blooming hour,
When every brake has found its note,
And sunshine smiles in every flower;
But when the falling leaf is sear,
And withers sadly on the tree,
And o'er the ruins of the year
Dark autumn sighs—remember me !
The hour when on the gentle lake,
The sportive wavelets blue and clear,
Soft rippling on the margin break:
But when the deafening billows foam
In madness o'er the pathless sea,
Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam
Across them—and remember me!
Everett.
To hear, to see, to fee!, and to possess,
And roam along the world's tired denizen;
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kind consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this, is solitude!
Byron.
There cannot be a greater treachery, than first to raise a confidence, and then betray it.
How cruel is a cool temper after fury ! how different are the points of sight on the same object! In the horror of despair ferocity is taken for courage, and the fear of suffering for firmness of mind. Let a look, a surprise call us back to ourselves, and we find that weakness only was the principle of our heroism, that repentance is the fruit of it, and contempt the recompence. The knowledge of my fault, is the most severe punishment
Which my second is destined to feel;
And my whole is the best antidote,
That affliction to soften and heal.
C. Fox.
So long as public men, in public stations, exert themselves in those situations, to fulfil the duty demanded from them by the public, they will always find the British nation ready to heap upon them the utmost extent of its gratitude and its applause. . Lord Nelson.
For pity's tear from valour's fountain Hows.
From shame, tho' love implores, the victim bleeds.
He was pruden rather than wise, and so fearful of doing wrong, the' -ie seldom did right.
Is to fear God, and know no other fear.
Courted the ladies of their heart;
Nor courted them in vain;
For often, in the parting hour,
Victorious Love asserts his power
O'er coldness and disdain;
And flinty is her heart, can view,
To battle march a lover true,
Can hear, perchance his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.
Scott.
Wealth commands the eye of heauty, and the ear of greatness; gives spirit to the dull, and authority to the timorous; and leaves him from whom it departs without virtue and without understanding. Johnson.
The husband and the father for awhile
Forgot his country and all things beside :
Life hath few moments of such pure delight,
Such foretaste of the perfect joy of heaven.
And when the thought recurred of sufferings past,
Perils which threatened still, and arduous toil
Yet to be undergone, remembered griefs
Heightened the present happiness; and hope
Upon the shadows of futurity
Shone like the sun upon the morning mists,
When driven before his rising rays they roll,
And melt and leave the prospect bright and clear!
Southey.
Come, sleep! and fold me in thy soft embrace,
Come, genial sleep! that sweetest blessing give,
To die thus living, and thus dead to live.
The Hindoos assert, that if the Author of the Universe preferred one religion to another, that only could prevail of which he approved; because to presume such preference while we see so many different religions would be the height of impiety, as it would be supposing injustice towards those he left ignorant of his will; and they therefore conclude, that every religion is peculiarly adapted to the country and people where it is practised, and that all in their original purity are equally acceptable to God.
Hand round the rosy wine;
Think not we'll taste the balmy cup
From any hand but thine.
No grape can such supply;
It steals its tint from Anna's cheek,
Its brightness from her eye.
Revenge from some baneful corner shall level a tale of dishonor at thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct shall set right. The fortunes of thy house shall totter; thy character which led the way to them shall bleed on every side of it; thy faith questioned; thy works belied; thy wit forgotten; thy learning trampled on. To wind up the last scene of thy tragedy, cruelty and cowardice, twin ruffians, hired and set on by malice in the dark, shall strike together at all thy infirmities and mistakes. The best of us, my dear lad, lie open there; and trust me, trust me Yorick, when, to gratify a private appetite, it is once resolved upon that an innocent and an helpless creature shall be sacrificed, 'tis an easy matter to pick up sticks enough from any thicket where it has strayed, to make a fire to offer it up with.
In cottages and smoky cells,
Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
And though he fears no prince's frown,
Flies from the circle of a crown.
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipp'd in the Lethean lake,
O'er his wakeful temples shake,
Lest he should sleep and never wake.
Obliged to thy greatest foe 1
Sleep, that is thy best repast;
Yet of death it bears a taste,
And both are the same thing at last.
It is a very common mistake in judgment, and a very dangerous one in conduct, first to look for nothing in the argument proposed to us but the motive of the man who uses it, and then to measure the truth of his argument, by the motive we have assigned to him.
Boisterous as March yet fresh as May;
With open hand, and brow as free,
Lover of wine, and minstrelsy;
Ever the first to scale a tower,
As venturous in a lady's bower;
Such buxom chief shall lead his host
From India's fire to Zembla's frost.
Scott.
The judgment and capacity which make resistance useless or impracticable, are rated much higher than even the resolution which overcomes it.
To lengthen out thy life's short kalendar?
When every spectacle thou look'st upon,
Presents and acts thy execution.
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry
'Fool! as I fade and wither thou must die.'
Is just the tolling of thy passing bell:
Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopie
Covers alike deceased day and thee.
And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,
Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.
King, Bishop Of Chichester, 1641 to 1670.
In a few weeks the passion which had so long disturbed the peace of Laura was hushed by lasting repose; but it was the repose of the land where the whirlwind has passed—dreary and desolate.
Men are in proportion wicked, as they are ignorant or envious; and the only means of eluding their mischievous intentions, is to keep out of their way.
AUTUMN FLOWERS.
How beautiful they are !
Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,
Ah! lovelier far.
They are the last, last, last!
Oh by that little word,
How many thoughts are stirr'd,
That conjure up the past!
Ye're types of precious things;
Types of those bitter moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,
On rapid, rapid wings
(That time the fastest spends);
Last tears in silence shed,
Last words half uttered,
Last looks of dying friends.
A life into a day,
The last day spent with one
Who, ere the morrow's sun,
Must leave us, and for aye?
Pale flowers! ye're types of those;
The saddest, sweetest, dearest,
Because like those the nearest
To an eternal close.
I woo your gentle breath—
I leave the summer rose
For younger, blither brows;
Tell me of change and death!
By Love's delightful influence the attack of ill humour is resisted; the violence of our passions abated; the bitter cup of affliction sweetened; all the injuries of the world alleviated; and the sweetest flowers plentifully strewed along the most thorny paths of life. Zimmerman.
Best, purest emblem of the bliss above I
To draw new raptures from another's joy;
To share each grief, and half its sting destroy;
Of one fond heart to be the slave and lord,
Bless and be bless'd, adore and be aJor'd;
To own the link of soul, the chain of mind,
Sublimest friendship, passion most refined;
Passion, to life's last evening hour still warm,
And friendship, brightest in the darkest storm—
Lives there, but would, for blessings so divine,
The crowded haram's sullen joys resign ?
Sterne.
By all their country's wishes blest ?
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than fancy's feet have ever trod.
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf, that wraps their clay:
And freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.
Shenstone.
He was brave, violent, and weak "of intellect, the three most essential qualities to influence a man, either to send, or to accept a challenge.
How sweet is woman's love, is woman's care 1
When struck and shatter'd in a stormy hour We droop forlorn; and man, with stoic air,
Neglects, or roughly aids; then robed in power, Then nature's angel seeks the mourner's bower.
How blest her smile that gives the soul repose! How blest her voice, that, like the genial shower
Pour'd on the desert, gladdens as it flows, And cheers the sinking heart, and conquers half our woes!
Gallt Knight.
'Tis sweet to see the opening flower
Spread its fair bosom to the sun; 'Tis sweet to hear in vernal bower
The thrush's earliest hymn begun :
But sweeter far the prayer that wrings The tear from maiden's beaming eye;
And sweeter far the hymn she sings
In grateful, holy extasy ! Hogg.
REFLECTION AT SEA.
See how beneath the moonbeam's smile, Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for a while, And murmuring then subsides to rest;
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on time's eventful sea; And having swell'd a moment there,
Thus sinks into eternity ! Moore.
Oh ! thou deceiver Life, how brightly gay Thy future scenes on youthful fancies rise,
Till cold experience draws the veil away, And, drest in all its dread realities,
Dark in our sight the blighted prospect lies; So from afar the faithless deserts shew
Ideal lakes to cheat the pilgrim's eyes;
Thirsting he toils across the plains that glow, And 6nds a waste of sand, where waters seem'd to flow !
Gally Knight.
There is an obligation to complacency, if not, humility of manners, which the acquisition of wealth or station lays on every man, though it has often, especially on weak minds, a directly opposite effect. A certain degree of inattention, or rudeness, which from an equal we may easily pardon, from a superior becomes a serious injury.
The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire, In circle narrowing as it glows, The flames around their captive close, Till inly searched by thousand throes, And maddening in her ire,
One sad and sole relief she knows, The sting she nourished for her foes, Whose venom never yet was vain, Gives but one pang and cures all pain, And darts into her desperate brain; So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath driven, Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.
Byhon.
To-mohrow. How sweet to the heart is the thought of to-morrow
When hope's fairy pictures bright colours display; How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow
A balm for the grief that afflicts us to-day ?
When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish
For health and the comforts it bears on its wing, 1 Let me hope, oh ! how soon would it lessen my anguish, That to-morrow will ease and serenity bring.
When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended,
Sweet the hope that to-morrow my wanderings may cease;
Then at home when with care sympathetic attended, I should rest unmolested, and slumber in peace.
When six days of labour each other succeeding, When hurry and toil have my spirits opprest;
What pleasure to think, as the last is receding, To-morrow will be the sweet sabbath of rest.
And when the vain shadows of time are retiring, When life is fast fleeting, and death is in sight,
The Christian believing, exulting, expiring, Beholds a to-morrow of endless delight!
Write on unheeded, and this maxim know, The man who pardons disappoints his foe.
Young.
Weep not for those, whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it, 'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of heaven has unchain'd it, To water that Eden, where first was its source !
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Eve sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.
Moore.
CANZONET.
Love and Joy, one April day,
Stole a fragile bark, they say;
But when once she was afloat,
Quarrell'd which should steer the boat;
Love grew angry, seized bis quiver,
And struck poor Joy into the river;
And though his pinions buoy'd him on the wave,
And though he pray'd and wept, Love would not save,
But frowning turn'd away—he found a wat'ry grave !—
Still the bark is sailing on,
And Love steers her all alone;
Mournful sits the cruel boy,
Weeping for the death of Joy, "Whose phantom sometimes flits around the mast. Recalling all the brightness of the past: But if repentant Love woos the light form to stay, He spreads his rainbow wings and flies away. 0.
AN EPITAPH.
When sorrow weeps o'er virtue's sacred dust, Our tears become us, and our grief is just; Such were the tears he shed, who grateful pays This last sad tribute of his love and praise : Who mourns the best of wives and friends combin'd, Where female softness met a manly mind : Mourns, but not murmurs, sighs, but not despairs, Feels as a man, and as a Christian bears.
M
Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast Where love has been received, a welcome guest; As wandering saints poor huts have sacred made, He hallows every heart, he once has swayed; And when his presence we no longer share, Still leaves compassion as a relick there.
Sheridan.
They sin who tell us Love can die 1 With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth;
But Love is indestructible,
Its holy flame for ever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of love is there. Oh ! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night, For all her sorrows, all her tears, An over payment of delight ? Southey.
It is from the use, not the possession of talents, that we get on in life : the exertion of very moderate parts outweighs the indecision of the brightest. Men possessed of the first, do things tolerably, and are satisfied; of the last, forbear doing things well, because they have ideas beyond them.
Proud, ruthless man, by vengeance driven,
Regardless hears a brother plead; Regardless sees the brand of heaven,
Red quivering o'er his guilty head :
But once let woman's soothing tongue
Implore his help or clemency, Around him let her arms be flung,
Or, at his feet, her bended knee;
The world's a shadow ! vengeance sleeps!
The child of reason stands reveal'd— When beauty pleads, when woman weeps,
He is not man who scorns to yield !
Hogg.
I Ask'd of Time : to whom arose this high Majestic pile here sunk in rude decay ?
He answers not, but swifter speeds his way,
Fanning with outspread wings the boundles s sky.
I say to Fame; 0 thou, whose sons defy The waste of years, and deathless works essay !—
She heaves a sigh as one to grief a prey, And sobbing downward casts her tearful eye.
I now proceeded, sad and thoughtful grown, When stern in aspect, o'er the ruin'd shrine
I see Oblivion stalk from stone to stone,
Ah thou, I cried, hast known ! say, what design—
He check'd my further speech with sullen tone,
' I care not whose it was, it now is mine.'
From The Italian Of Petrocchi.
Have ye a sense, ye gales, a conscious joy
In beauty, that with such an artful touch
And light, ye float about her garment folds,
Displaying what is exquisite display'd,
And thinly scattering the light veil where'er
Its shadowing may enhance the grace, and swell
With sweet officiousness the clustering hair,
Where fairest tufts its richness, and let fall
Where drooping most becomes; that thus ye love
To lose yourselves about her and expire
Upon her shape or snow-white robes ? She stood,
Her ivory arm in a soft curve stretch'd out
As only in the obedience of her steeds
Rejoicing; they, their necks arch'd proud and high
And by her delicate and flower-soft hands Sway'd, as enamour'd of her mastery, moved, Lovingly on their bright chaf'd bits reposed, Or in gay sport upon each oMier fawn'd.
Milman.
Mr. Charles Grant, in a spee^1 in the House of Commons, November 4th, 1813, on th, propriety of this country defending the Peninsula, thus iHuded to classical associations, to republican virtue, and ^publican excellence.
" But if we are obliged to give up that cla, Of associations, I perceive with exultation, that the* js vej another class of associations no less sacred and venv.a|jje which we may now cherish with additional fona^ss_ I mean those associations which enforce the belief of . _ stinctive patriotism, of unbidden enthusiasm in the cause of virtue, of the grandeur of self-devotion, of the magnanimity of great sacrifices for great objects, for honour, for independence. We must all recollect, with what delight we imbibed these sentiments at the fountain of classical learning, and followed them into action in the history of great men and illustrious states; but of late, and especially towards the close of the last century, there seems to have crept into this nation a sort of spurious and barren philosophy, of which it was the object to deny those associations; to represent them as the illusions of ignorance, frenzy, or falsehood; to curb the original play of nature, to inculcate coldness and selfishness upon system; and to institute in the place of all that formed the delight of a higher philosophy, a spirit of lazy deliberation conducted by apathy, and ending therefore in meanness and dishonour. It was this philosophy that taught that those ideas of excellence have no antitypes in nature; it was this philosoply- that taught that it is not only more prudent >ut more conformable to our being, for every man in tine of danger, to reason before he followed the promp'ngs of true courage; to make it a matter of calculatii-1. whether his country be worth saving before he dr^s his sword in her defence; to reduce it to a questic1 of algebra, or a problem in geometry, whether he s^mld resist the efforts of tyranny or bow before the'yo^' I* must be confessed that the history of the past age^ and especially the sleep which seemed to have Sp,.ad over Europe, gave too much countenance to these .jrnicious maxims; but the hour is at length come which has exposed the fallacy of these speculations, and rescued human nature from these dishonourable calumnies. The experience of the few last years has abolished, I trust for ever, that heartless and bloodless system, the miserable abortion of a cold heart and depraved imagination, which never waked one noble thought, nor inspired one generous action. The experience of the few last years has proved, that those high sentiments which we were taught to respect, were not false and visionary; but that they are founded upon whatever is deepest and purest in the human character. It has proved, that true reason is never at war with just feeling; that man is now what he was in those distant ages, a creature born indeed to act upon principles, but that he never acts more nobly, more wisely, more worthily of himself, than when he acts upon the prompt persuasions of grand passions, sublimed and directed by lofty principles."
AN UNFORTUNATE GIRL.
The world forgives not her—for one offence
The world shuts mercy's gate on penitence :
And like the brand which seals a villain's shame,
Forbids return to virtue and to fame.
Yet shame to those the merciless—to them
Who, proud in untried virtue, dare condemn;
To such, as still in folly's circle run,
Too dull to feel, too cold to be undone;
Or scarcely chaste in thought, yet safe from harm,
Merely because they want the power to charm :
Who with disgust, or mingled joy and hate,
Hear of the blighted name, the ruined fate
Of all that once was beautiful —the eye
More bright than theirs—the birth, perchance, as high;
Who still disdain the fallen fair to raise,
But think by cruelty to merit praise;
Oh ! let them know, that mercy is the grace,
Which pours a ray divine o'er mind and face,
O'er other's woes, in sorrow let them pause,
Nor while they scorn to pity, help to cause.
TO A LADY WHO COMPLAINED THAT THE ROSE WHICH SHE HAD PUT IN WATER, WAS FALLEN TO PIECES.
The rose, alas ! thy guardian hand
Saved yesterday from dying, Pale, wan, and vvither'd from its stem,
Is now in ruins lying.
But the fond flower, to shew thee still
Was grateful e'en in death, Her blushes to thy cheek bequeathed,
Her perfume to thy breath. ».
Oh ! who could, even in bondage, tread the plain Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise Kindling within him* who with heart and eyes, Could walk where liberty had been, nor see The shining foot-prints of her deity, Nor feel those godlike breathings in the air, Which mutely told her spirit had been there ?
Moore.
The Chevalier's Lament.
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale,
The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, And wide scattered cowslipj bedeck the gree n dale.
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. While the lingering moments are numbered by care *
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, A king, and a father to place on his throne 2
His right are these hills, and his right are these vallies, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.
But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, forlorn, My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn,
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return? Burns.
No radiant pearl which crested fortune wears, No gem that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, Not the bright stars which heaven's high arch adorn. Nor vernal sun that gilds the rising morn, Shine with such lustre as the tears that break, For other's woe, down virtue's manly cheek.
Sincerity is an openness of the heart which is rarely to be found; that which commonly personates it is a refined dissimulation, whose end is to procure confidence. A desire to talk of ourselves, and to set our faults in whatever light we choose, makes the main of our sincerity.
TO THE LOIRE.
Who, that surveys thy waves in placid tide,
Like liquid silver shining as they glide;
Now kindly kissing each impending bough,
Which bathes its verdure in thy stream below,
Now coyly curling, with inconstant smile,
To shun the green bank of some flowery isle;
Who, that thus views thy beauties, could suppose
That once, O Loire! thy stream (though now it flows
So fair and tranquil) swallow'djn its wave
Myriads of heroes, generous as brave;
Heroes, who nobly fought to save their king,
When Civil War unfurl'd her baleful wing,
And rushing down with her accursed brood,
Steep'd her foul pinions in a sea of blood:—
Who, that now sees thee smiling o'er thy bed,
Could think thy stream had thus borne down the dead,
Or guess, that erst had perished in thy flood
All that the scaffold spared of great and good,
While Carrier*, crimson'd with Vendean gore,
Fiendlike, survey'd the noyades from thy shore ?
Thus oft a form, which seems so fresh and fair, That nought, we think, of vile could linger there, Serves to conceal a soul, where Sin and Crime Are stamp'd so blackly by the hand of time,
- Carrier commanded at Nantes during the reign of terror, and superintended the noyades.
That no remorse can e'er wash out the stain, Nor e'en repentance make it pure again :— Bright as the Loire, above—a grave beneath; Without all beauty—and within it, Death.
There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who that has pined an a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land, but has thought on the mother ' that looked on his childhood,' that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity; and if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.
Washington Irving.
What heart of man unmoved can lie, When plays the smile in beauty's eye ? Or when a form of grace and love To music's notes can lightly move ?
Yes; there are hearts unmoved can see The smile, the ring, the revelry:— But heart of warrior ne'er could bear The beam of beauty's crystal tear.
Hoao.
The flower enamour'd of the sun,
At his departure, hangs her head, and weeps,
And shrouds her sweetness up, and keeps
Sad vigil, like a cloister'd nun,
'Till his returning ray appears,
Waking her beauty as he dries his tears!
Tobin.
Chacun se dit ami, mais fou qui s'y repose; Rien n'est plus commun que le nom, Rien n'est plus rare que la chose.
La Fontaine.
Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is scarcely a virtue for a woman to possess it, but to be without it, is a grievous crime.
Believe not each accusing tongue,
As most weak persons do; But still believe that story wrong,
Which ought not to be true !
Sheridan.
To wish and want doth make a pensive heart,
To look and lack doth make a weary eye; To touch and not to take's a foolish part,
To love and not to move is a misery. Then since all hope is gone, all hope adieu, For thoughts, words, deeds, and all are all untrue.
Vain is it for to write upon the shore,
Vain is it on the water for to till; Vain is it stars or sands to number o'er,
Vain is it to command or wind or wil!; And without hope, to hope is also vain, Since good hope never can good hap attain.
FROM THE HARLEIAN MS. 1840.
Lalla Rookh herself could not help feeling the kindness and splendour with which the young bridegroom welcomed her, but she also felt how painful is the gratitude which kindness from those we cannot love creates; and that their best blandishments come over the heart, with all that chilling and deadly sweetness, which we can fancy in the cold, odoriferous wind that is to blow over this earth in the last days.
Moore.
A Good name is the embalming of the virtuous to an eternity of love and gratitude among pos terity.
A BUTTERFLY.
Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold, There shall thy wings rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut in silent extasy.
Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept,
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb, and slept;
And such is man; soon from his cell of clay,
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. Roqekb.
The following was the address of Mr. Abbott (now Lord Colchester), as Speaker of the House of Commons, to the Duke of Wellington, on the 18th of July, 1814.
" My Lord Duke,—Since last I had the honour of addressing you from this place, a series of eventful years has elapsed, but none without some note or mark of your rising glory. The military triumphs which your valour has achieved on the banks of the Douro and the Tagus, of the Ebro and the Garonne, have called forth the spontaneous shouts of admiring nations. Those triumphs it is needless on this day to recount. Their names have been written by your conquering sword in the annals of Europe, and we shall hand them down with exultation to our children's children.
" It is not, however, the grandeur of military success which has alone fixed our admiration, or commanded our applause ! It has been that generous and lofty spirit which inspired your troops with unbounded confidence, and taught them to know that the day of battle was always a day of victory ! That moral and enduring fortitude, which in perilous times, when gloom and doubt had beset ordinary minds, stood, nevertheless unshaken! And that ascendancy of character, which uniting the energies of jealous and rival nation, enabled you to wield, at will, the fates and fortunes of mighty empires!
" For the repeated thanks and grants bestowed upon you by this house, in gratitude for your many and eminent services, you have thought fit, this day, to offer us your acknowledgments. But this nation well knows that it is still largely your debtor. It owes to you the proud satisfaction, that amidst the constellation of illustrious warriors who have lately visited this country, we could present to them a leader of our own, to whom all, by common acclamation, conceded the pre-eminence! And when the will of Heaven, and the common destinies of our nature, shall Have swept away the present generation, you will have left your great name, an imperishable monument, exciting others to like deeds of glory, and serving at once to adorn, defend, and perpetuate the existence of this country amongst the rising nations of the earth.
" It now remains only, that we congratulate your grace upon the high and important mission on which you are about to proceed; and we doubt not that the same splendid talents, so conspicuous in war, will maintain with equal authority, firmness, and temper, our national honour and interest in peace."
With conscious pride I view the band Of faithful friends that round me stand; With pride exult that 1 alone Can join these scatter'd gems in one, For they're the wreath of pearls, and I The silken cord on which they lie !
'Tis mine their inmost soul to see Unlock'd is every heart to me, To me they cling, on me they rest, And I've a place in every breast, For they're the wreath of pearls, and I The silken cord on which they lie !
Sir William Jones.
Misunderstanding and inattention create more uneasiness in the world than deception and artifice, or at least, their consequences are more universal.
Goethe.
Tis sweet to behold, when the billows are sleeping, Some gay colour'cl bark moving gracefully by;
No damp on her deck, but the eventide's weeping, No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.
Yet who would not turn, with a fonder emotion, To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn,
Which often hath wafted, o'er hills of the ocean, The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn
Oh ! grant, that of those, who, in life's sunny slumber, Around us like summer barks, idly have play'd,
When storms are abroad, we may find in the number, One friend like the life-boat to 8y to our aid'.
Moore.
Oh ! too convincing—dangerously dear—
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear;
That weapon of her weakness she can wield,
To save—subdue—at once her spear and shield :
Avoid it—virtue ebbs and wisdom errs,
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers !
What lost a world and bade a hero fly ?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.
Yet be the soft Triumvir's fault forgiven;
By this—how many lose not earth but heaven,
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe,
And seal their own, to spare some wanton's woe !
Btron.
On scenes of public sorrow and national regret we gaze as upon those gallery-pictures which strike us with wonder and admiration : domestic calamity is like the miniature of a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret looks and solitary enjoyment.
Gentlb River! gentle river! Wilt thou thus complain for ever ? Why, when nought obstructs thy flow, Dost thou sigh, and murmuring low, Strike my ear with sounds of woe ? Is it that some sandbank's force For an instant stay'd thy course ? Has some shoal or rugged rock Stemm'd thy waves with sudden shock ? Wail no longer, gentle river ! These are past and gone for ever: Yonder is the wish'd-for sea, Home of peace and rest for thee !
Why does man, when all is shining,
Dim the brightness by repining ?
Why, when no dark cloud hangs o'er him,
Dreads he still some rock before him,
Weeps o'er woes he long has past,
Mourns his joys which did not last ?
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor mourn,
Yonder is the wish'd-for bourne,
Home of peace and rest for thee,—
Death and Immortality ! **
I
Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue, where patience, honour, sweet humanity, and calm fortitude take root and strongly flourish. Mallet.
Love shows all changes,—Hate, Ambition, Guile,
Betray no further than the bitter smile;
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien,
He who would see, must be himself unseen.
Byron.
She seem'd so pure, that I thought Heaven borrowed her fair form for virtue's self to wear, to gain her lovers with the sons of men. Yodng.
It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb a more delightful vision.
I saw her, just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,— glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh ! what a revolution ! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall 1 Little did I dream that, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fall upon her in a nation of men of honour, anil of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult—but the age of chivalry is gone 1 Burke.
Br one bright action great delinquents win ' More praise than saints by lives exempt from sin.
Gally Knight.
As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rased by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils and bind up its shattered boughs; so it is beautifully ordered by providence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity : winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.
Washington Irving.
Circles are praised, not that abound In largeness, but th' exactly round; So life we prize, that doth excel Not in much time, but acting well.
Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tear
That mourns thine exit from a world like this;
Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here, And stay'd thy progress to the seats of bliss.
No more confined to grovelling scenes of night,
No more a tenant kept in mortal clay, Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight,
And trace thy journey to the realms of day.
What are spirits ? light indeed and gay They are, like winter-flowers, nor last a day; Comes a rude icy wind,—they feel, and fade away.
Crabbe.
To sigh, yet feel no pain,—
To weep—yet scarce know why,
To sport an hour with beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by :
To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won;
This is love—careless love—
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
To keep one sacred flame
Through life unchill'd, unmoved,
To love in wiut'ry age the same,
As first in youth we loved :
To feel that we adore
With such refined excess,
That though the heart would break with more,
It could not love with less—
This is love—faithful love—
Such as saints might feel above !
Moore,
If the young man forgets his God, the old one will seldom find him in old age; if in the pride and flush of health, we omit to call on the name of him from whom we possess the vigour of life, in the hour of sickness what comfort can we have in approaching his divine majesty ? And if in the full enjoyment of every species of worldly prosperity, we neglect to pause in the midst of our enjoyment to acknowledge the giver of all good gifts, with what heart can we in the hour of adversity fly for protection to divine goodness ?
Look not thou on beauty's charming, Sit thou still when kings' are arming, Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, Speak not when the people listens, Stop thine ear against the singer, From the red gold keep thy finger, Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live, and quiet die.
Walter Scott.
The loquacious exultation of anticipated success is often a powerful obstacle to its attainment.
Bissett.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer visions fly,
If but a fleeting doud obscure the sky,
If but a beam of sober reason play,
Lo ! fancy's fairy frostwork me lts away—
But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour 1 These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a stream of living light, And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Where virtue triumphs and her sons are blest!
Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night,.in darkness lost; Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lour.
Burns.
Oh ! golden link! connecting man with man,
Celestial Charity ! oh, rarely seen Since lust of rule and thirst of gold began
Unhallow'd reign—whene'er thy look serene
Sheds placid influence, how the soften'd mien, And soften'd heart, consenting, own thy sway !
Thus rifted ice, enchain'd by winter keen, Thaw'd by the sun, in rivers rolls away, And glads the parched waste, and sparkles to the day.
Gally Knight.
This life will not admit of equality; but surely that man who thinks he derives consequence and respect from keeping others at a distance, is as base minded as the coward, who shuns the enemy from the fear of an attack.
Goethe.
TO A DYING 1N7ANT.
Sleep ! little baby ! sleep !
Not in thy cradle bed, Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But quiet with the dead.
Yes ! with the quiet dead,
Baby thy rest shall be; Oh ! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light,
Would fain lie down with thee.
Flee little tender nursling !
Flee to thy place of rest! There the first flowers shall blow, The first pure flake of snow
Shall fall upon thy breast.
Peace ! Peace ! the little bosom
Labours with shortening breath— Peace ! Peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh— These are the damps of death.
I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee ! But never then wert thou So beautiful, as now,
Baby ! thou seem's t to me.
Mount up, immortal essence!
Young spirit! haste, depart— And is this Death ?—Dread thing! If such thy visiting,
How beautiful thou art.
Thine upturn'd eyes glaz'd over, Like harebells wet with dew;
Already veil'd and hid
By the convulsed lid,
Their pupils darkly blue.
Thy little mouth half open,
The soft lip quivering As if (like summer air Huffling the rose-leaves) there
Thy soul were fluttering.
Oh! I could gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face : So passionless, so pure ! The little shrine was sure
An Angel's dwelling place.
Thou weepest, childless mother !
Aye weep—'twill ease thine heartHe was thy first-born son, Thy first, thine only one,
"Pis hard from him to part!
'Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earth—
His empty crib to see,
His silent nursery,
Once gladsome with his mirth.
To meet again in slumber
His small mouth's rosy kiss; Then, waken'd with a start By thine own throbbing heart, His twining arms to miss.
To feel (half conscious why)
A dull, heart-sinking weight, 'Till memory on thy soul Flashes the painful whole That thou art desolate.
And then to lie and weep,
And think the livelong night, (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight.
Of all his winning ways, His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry, And all his little wiles !
Oh ! these are recollections
Round mothers' hearts that cling— That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.
But thou wilt then, fond mother I
In after years look back (Time brings such wondrous easing) With sadness not unpleasing,
E'en on this gloomy track.
Thou'lt say, " My first born blessing
It almost broke my heart When thou wert forced to go, And yet, for thee, I know,
'Twas better to depart.
I look around, and see
The evil ways of men; And, oh beloved child! I'm more than reconciled
To thy departure then.
The little arms that clasp'd me, The innocent lips that prest,
Would they have been as pure
Till now, as when of yore I lull'd thee on my breast?
Now when the hour arrives
From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await, The first at Heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me."
There are those to whom a sense of religion has come in storm and tempest: there are those whom it has summoned amid scenes of revelry and idle vanity : there are those too who have heard ' its still small voice* amid rural leisure and placid retirement. But perhaps the knowledge which causeth not to err is most frequently impressed upon the mind during the seasons of affliction; and tears are the softened showers which cause the seed of heaven to spring and take root in the human heart.
Walter Scott.
Oh I we are querulous creatures ! Little less Than all things can suffice to make us happy : And little more than nothing is enough 'l'n discontent us.'
Coleridge.
Tir'd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes: Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
Young.
Mr. Sheridan in his celebrated speech on the " Begum
Charge," before the High Court of Parliament, in June,
1788, observed:
" State necessity is a tyrant which when it stalked abroad, assumed a manly front, manifesting its powers, and acting at least with an open, if not with a severe violence.
" Mr. Hastings in his political sagacity, took the converse of the doctrine that the experience of history had established; that opulence and wealth, as they attached a man to the country where they lay, made him cautious how he hazarded any enterprise that might draw the jealousy of government. Poverty on the other hand, made a man giddy and desperate; having no permanent state he was easily seduced into commotion. Mr. Hastings on the contrary, never failed to find a convincing proof of attachment in penury, and of rebellion in wealth."
The crowd is gone, the travellers at rest, The courteous host and all-approving guest, Again to that accustom'd couch must creep Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, And man o'er laboured with his being's strife, Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life.
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile, O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, And quench'd existence crouches in a grave.
What better name may slumber's bed become ? Night's sepulchre, the universal home, Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, Alike in naked helplessness recline.
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death; And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.
Bykon.
Poverty, if it be a fault, is its own punishment; who pays more for it, pays use upon use.
Cleveland.
Never was that man merry that had more than one woman in his bed, one friend in his bosom, one faith in his heart.
Fortune is sweet, Fortune is sour, Fortune will laugh, Fortune will low'r; The fading fruit of Fortune's flower Doth ripe and rot both in an hour.
Fortune can give, Fortune can take, Fortune can mar, Fortune can make; When others sleep, poor I do wake, And all for unkind Fortune's sake.
Fortune sets up, Fortune pulls down, Fortune soon loves, but hates as soon; She is less constant than the moon, She'll give a groat, and take a crown.
CUTHBURT BOLTON. 1603.
Misfortune, like a creditor, severe, But rises in demand for her delay; She makes a scourge of past prosperity, To sting thee more, and double thy distress.
Young.
The Princess, afterwards Queen Elizabeth, on sending her portrait to her half-brother, King Edward VI. says, " For the face, I grant, I might well blush to offer; but the mind I sha'.l n:ver be ashamed to present. For though from the grace of the picture the colours may fade by time, may give by weather, may be spotted by chance, yet the other, nor time with her swift wings shall overtake, nor the misty clouds with their lowerings may darken, nor chance with her slippery foot may overthrow."
Every man has in his own life follies enough—in his own mind troubles enough—in the performance of his duties deficiencies enough—in his own fortunes evils enough—without being curious about the affairs of others. A Solitary blessing few can find,
Our joys with those we love are intertwined,
And he, whose hopeful tenderness removes
Til' obstructing thorn which wounds the breast he loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,
But scatters roses to adorn his own !
Rogers.
Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping :—they are like rats in a mansion, or mites in a cheese, bespeaking the antiquity and fatness of their abode. Irving.
ON CUPID'S DEATH AND BURIAL IN CASTARA'S CHEEK.
Cupid's dead. Who woulde not dye To be interred so neare her eye. Who woulde feare the sword, to have Such an alabaster grave, O'er which two hright tapers burne, To give light to the beauteous urne 1 At the first Castara smil'd, Thinking Cupid her beguil'd, Onely counterfeiting death; But when she perceiv'd his breath Quite expir'd, the mournfull girle, To entombe the boy in pearle, Wept so long, that pittious Jove, From the ashes of th is love,
Made ten thousand Cupids rise, But confin'd them to her eyes, Where they yet, to showe they lacke No due sorrowe, still weare blacke; But the blackes, so glorious are, Which they mourne in, that the faire Quires of starres turne pale and fret, Seeing themselves outshin'd by jet.
Habington.
I Can both see and feel how hereditary distinction, when it falls to the lot of a generous mind, may elevate that mind into true nobility. It is one of the effects of hereditary rank, when it falls thus happily, that it multiplies the duties, and as it were extends the existence of the possessor. He does not feel himself a mere individual link in creation, responsible only for his own brief term of being: he carries back his existence in proud recollection, and he extends it forward in honourable anticipation : he lives with his ancestry, and he lives with his posterity : to both does he consider himself involved in deep responsibilities: as he has received much from those that went before him, so he feels bound to transmit much to those who are to come after him.
Washington Irving.
There is an hour of peaceful rest,
To weary wanderers given, There is a tear for souls distrest A balm, for every wounded breast, Tis found above in Heaven!
There is a soft, a downy bed,
'Tis fair as breath of even, A couch for weary mortals spread, Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose—in Heaven !
There, Faith lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven, And views the tempest passing by, The evening shadows quickly fly, And all's serene in Heaven.
There, fragrant flowers, eternal bloom,
And joys supreme are given, There, rays divine disperse the gloom— Beyond the confines of the tomb Appears the dawn of Heaven!
Times of action make princes into peasants, and boors into barons. All families have sprung from some one mean man : and it is well if they have never degenerated from his virtue who raised them first from obscurity.
Walter Scott
O Thou ! whose pow'r o'er moving worlds presides Whose voice created, and whose mercy guides; On darkling man in pure effulgence shine, And cheer the clouded mind with light divine;
'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast, With silent confidence and holy rest; From the great God we spring, to thee we tend, Path, motive, guide, original and end.
Translated From Boethius By Ben Jonson.
The mourner banquets on memory; making that which seems the poison of life, its aliment. During the hours of regret we recal the images of departed joys, and in weeping over each tender remembrance, tears so softly shed embalm the wounds of grief. To be denied the privilege of pouring forth our love and our lamentations over the grave of one who in life was our happiness, is to shut up the soul of the survivor in a solitary tomb, where the bereaved heart pines in secret till it breaks with the fulness of uncommunicated sorrow: but listen to the mourner; give his feelings way, and, like the river rolling from the hills into the valley, they will flow with a gradually gentler stream, till they become lost in time's wide ocean. Miss Porter.
Oh the sad day When friends shall shake their heads, and say
Of miserable me,
" Hark how he groans ! look how he pants for breath ! " See how he struggles with the pangs of death !" When they shall say of these poor eyes How hollow and how dim they be ! Mark how his breast doth swell and rise Against his potent enemy !
When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and Ihence shall gently glide;
And when his next companions say
" How doth he do ? What hopes ?" shall turn away
Answering only with a lift up hand
" Who can his fate withstand !"
Then shall a gasp or two do more
Than e'er my rhetoricke could before— Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no more.
Flatman.
We are bound to speak truth to our neighbour; for the use and application of speech imply a tacit promise of truth, speech having been given us for no other purpose. It is not a compact between one private man with another; it is a common compact of mankind in general, and a kind of right of nations, or rather a law of nature. Whoever tells an untruth violates this law and common compact. Nicole.
In every season of life grief brings its own peculiar antidote along with it: the buoyancy of youth soon repels its 'deadening weight; the firmness of manhood resists its weakening influence; the torpor of old age is insensible to its most acute pangs.
0 Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence, (Lulling to sad repose the weary seme)
The faint pang stealcst unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear, That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
1 may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile;— As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:— Yet, ah ! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
Bowles.
A calm at sea resembles that artificial sleep which is effected by opium in an ardent fever: the disease is suspended, but no good is derived from it. Denon.
And spight of pride, in erring reason's spight, One truth is clear, ' whatever is is right.'
Pope.
It is difficult to descend with grace without seeming to fall. Blair.
ECHO AND SILENCE.
In eddying course when leaves began to fly, And Autumn in her lap the stores to strew, As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the muse to woo,
Through glens untrod, and woods that frown'd on high
Two sleeping nymphs, with wonder mute I spy :— And, lo! she's gone.—In robe of dark green hue, 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew :
For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky.—
In shade affrighted Silence melts away. Not co her sister. Hark! for onward still
With far-heard step she takes her listening way, Bounding from rock to rock and hill to hill:
Ah ! mark the merry maid in mockful play,
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill.
Sir Egerton Brydges.
The absence of a blessing is too often considered a positive evil.
Oh poverty! thou art indeed omnipotent I 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 rendered us capable of acts of unknown horror. May I never be visited by thee in the fulness of thy power! Godwin.
The following letter written by Mr. AoDrsoN, to a Lady,
does not appear in any of his works. Madam,
It would be ridiculous in me, after the late intimation you were pleased to favour me with, to affect any longer an ignorance of your sentiments, opposite soever as an approbation of them must be to the dictates of reason and justice. This expression, Madam, I am highly sensible may appear too coarse in the mouth of a polite man; but I hope it is no disgrace to the behaviour of a sincere one. When we are to talk upon matters of importance, delicacy must give way to truth, and ceremony be sacrificed to candour : an honest freedom is the privilege of ingenuity; and the mind which is above the practice of deceit, can never stoop to a willingness to flatter. Give me leave, Madam, to remark, that the connection subsisting between your husband and myself, is of a nature too strong for me to think of injuring him in a point where the happiness of his life is so materially concerned. You cannot be sensible of his goodness, or my obligations; and suffer me to observe, Madam, that were I capable of such an action at the time that my behaviour might be rewarded by your passion, I must be despised by your reason; and though I might be esteemed as a lover, I must be hated as a man.
Highly sensible, Madam, of the power of your beauty, I am determined to avoid an interview where my reputation may be for ever lost. You have passions, you say, Madam, but give me leave to answer, that you have understanding also; you have a heart susceptible of the Underest impressions, but a soul, if you choose to wake it, above an unwarrantable indulgence of them; and let me intreat you for your sake, that no giddy impulse of an illplaced inclination may induce you to entertain a thought prejudicial to your honour, and repugnant to your virtue.
I, Madam, am far from being insensible; I too have passions; and could my situation a few years ago have allowed me a possibility of succeeding, I should have legally solicited that happiness you are now ready to bestow. I had the honor, Madam, of supping at Mr. D's, where I first saw you, and shall make no scruple of declaring that I never saw a person so irresistibly beautiful, or a manner so excessively engaging; but the superiority of your circumstances prevented any declaration on my side; and though I burned with a flame as strong as ever filled the human breast, I laboured to suppress, or at least studied to conceal it.
Time and absence at length abated an unhoping passion, and your marriage with my friend and my patron effectually cured it. Do not now, I beseech you, Madam, rekindle that fire which I must never think to fan : do not now, I beseech you, destroy a tranquillity I have just begun to taste, or blast your own honour, which has hitherto been spotless and unsullied. My best esteem is ever yours; but should I promise more, consider, I conjure you, the fatal necessity I am under of removing myself from an interview so dangerous; and in any other commands dispose of Your most humble and devoted.
J. A.
- The Holy Vow
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now, Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, His house she enters, there to be a light Shining within, when all without is night; A guardian Angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing ! How eft her eyes read his; her gentle mind To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined : Still subject; ever on the watch to borrow Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow. The soul of music slumbers in the shell, Till waked and kindled by the master's spell; And feeling hearts—touch them but rightly—pour A thousand melodies unheard before !
Rogers.
The spider's most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie
Of earthly bliss: it breaks at every breeze.
Young.
In a vigorous well governed and actively employed mind Love rarely becomes that resistless tyrant vanity and romances represent him. His empire is divided by the love of fame or the desire of usefulness, the eagerness of research, or the triumph of discovery.
Yes Lady, I have loved, and few can guess How rough the wound that hath this bosom tore From all we prize on earth—the deep distress Which sleeps not, dies not—'till we hreathe no more; There is a sorrow, which doth more than weep, And tears, it were a mockery to shed; There is a silence, which loo well doth speak; The care how hopeless, when the heart hath bled ! I am not as I seem ! the cheek may wear a smile, Though bitter anguish rend the victim's breast: Think not that this can misery beguile, 'Tis the sad mimic of a scaffold jest! Perchance a look of better days will glow, Such is the flush consumption can impart, And such the emblem of a surer woe, The slow consuming of a broken heart. Is this to live? who would not rather dare The meanest bondage of the veriest slave 1 Rest comes not when I call : my God ! despair Points to that dark and mournful rest;—the Grave.
LINES SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY KING HENRY VI.
Kingdoms are but cares,
State is devoid of stay; Riches are ready snares,
And hasten to decay.
Pleasure is a privy game
Which vice doth still provoke;
Pomp, unprompt; and fame a flume; Power, a smouldering smoke.
Who meaneth to remove the rock
Out of his slimy mud; Shall mire himself, and hardly 'scape
The swelling of the flood.
Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie Plung'd in the depths of helpless poverty.
It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man—the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse—the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting.
Washington Irving.
Such were those prime of days.
But now those white unblemish'd manners, whence The fabling poets took the golden age, Are found no more amid these iron times, These dregs of life! Now the distemper'd mind Has lost that concord of harmonious powers Which forms the soul of happiness, and all Is off the poize within. The passions all
Have burst their bounds, and reason, half extinct,
Or impotent, or else approving, sees
The foul disorder. Senseless and deform'd
Convulsive anger storms at large; or pale
And silent, settles into fell revenge.
Base envy withers at another's joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
Desponding fear, of feeble fancies full,
Weak and unmanly, loosens ev'ry power.
Even love itself is bitterness of soul;
A pensive anguish pining at the heart,
Or, sunk to sordid interest, feels no more
That noble wish, that never cloy'd desire,
Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone
To bless the dearer object of its flame.
Hope sickens with extravagance; and grief,
Of life impatient, into madness swells,
Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.
These, and a thousand mixed emotions more,
From ever changing views of good and ill,
Fomi'd infinitely various, vex the mind
With endless storm; whence, deeply rankling, grows
The partial thought, a listless unconcern,
Cold, and averting from our neighbour's good;
Then dark disgust, and hatred, winding wiles,
Coward deceit, and ruffian violence,
At last, extinct each social feeling, fell
And joyless inhumanity pervades
And petrifies the heart. Nature dilturbed
It deem'd, vindictive, to have chang'd her course.
Thomson.
One of the deaf and dumb in the institution at Paris, being desired to express his idea of the eternity of the deity, replied,
" It is duration without beginning or end; existence without bounds or dimensions; present without past or future. His eternity is youth without infancy or old age; life without birth or death; to-day without yesterday or to-morrow."
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the Lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow ! Even in its very motion, there was rest: While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Waftsd the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, Where, to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.
Wilson.
He cares but little for society; the ordinary intercourse of the world, had slender charms for him; but he has ambition, and ambition is a passion that cannot have its proper scope in a world of his own imagination. He cares but little for the world, but he would be ill satisfied with the reverse of this prop osition—that the world should not care for him. He will not endure its censure; he will not endure its contempt; he is formed to feel any slur that is cut upon him, not like a wound, but like fifty mortal swords each of them striking at something infinitely beyond hit life.
Tush, Death, why should'st thou dreaded be And shunn'd as some great misery ?
That cur'st our woes and strife; Only because we're ill resolv'd, And in dark error's clouds involr'd, Think Death the end of Lafe; Which most untrue, Each place we view, Gives testimonies rife.
The flowers that we behold each year. In chequer'd meads their heads to rear,
New rising from their tomb; The eglantines and honey-daisies, And all those pretty smiling faces, That still in age grow young; Even these do cry, That though men die, Yet life from death may come.
The towering cedars tall and strong, On Taurus and Mount Lebanon,
In time they all decay; Yet from their old and wasted roots, At length again grow up young shoots, That are as fresh and gay; Then why should we Thus fear to die, Whose death brings life for aye ?
The seed that in the earth we throw Doth putrify before it grow,
Corrupting in its urn; But at the spring it flourisheth, When Phoebus only cherisheth With life at his return. Doth Times' Sun this ? Then sure it is Time's Lord can more perform.
Haothokfi.
The following curious advertisement appeared in a provincial paper in May, 1818.
One who has basked in the sunshine of fortune, without deriving happiness from affluence, whose associate! have been numerous, and observations indefatigable, has discovered that whatever pretext was advanced, whatever visor was assumed, self-interest prompted every act, and guided every design. Th,e mask that veiled mankind was
scarcely to be penetrated by wisdom, or to be set aside by iriticement: interest was riveted in the human heart, and tainted all its emanations; it incited the enmity of brothers, the infidelity of women, and the ingratitude of children. He has lamented the infatuation of hoarding wealth to create enemies, and saw with horror the son's joy proportioned to the extent of the inheritance; resolved that those who hanker for his d°mise shall not benefit by it, he searches for a friend who would contribute to his happiness, because there was no motive for wishing his dissolution;—ties of consanguinity are often sources of torment and regret, he deems that person his dearest kindred who is his best friend—any one of congenial disposition, will address, &c.
Be wise to day: 'tis madness to defer : Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, 'till all are fled.
Young.
TO THE RAINBOW.
Triumphant arch ! that fill'st the sky, When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what th ou art:
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow ?
When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws '.
And yet, fair bow! no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the worlu's grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign !
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy!
Be still the poet's theme.
The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings, When glitt'ring in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town;
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fit thorns downl
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span; Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
Campbell.
Antipater, of Tarsus, careful ly entered every agreeable circumstance in that excellent book of the mind, the memory; how much wiser, how much happier than those, who, forgetful of every blessing they have received, hang on the vain and deceitful hand of hope, and while they are idly grasping at future acquisitions, neglect the enjoyment of the present. Though the future gifts of fortune are not in their power, and though their present possessions are not in the power of fortune, they look up to the former and neglect the latter. Their punishment, however, is not less just than it is certain. Before philosophy and the cultivation of reason have laid a proper foundation for the management of wealth and power, they pursue them with that avidity which must for ever harass an undisciplined mind.
As flowers, too bright, too sweet to last, Drop all their leaves at Winter's blast, So all my hopes have past away, As short-lived, sweet, and fair as they. But flowers return with genial spring, More bright, more fair, more flourishing. My joys, alas ! shall never more return,
Stern Winter still remains, And I am ever doom'd in hapless grief to mourn.
If memory brings those hours to view,
Those fleeting hours when joy was new,
When hope with rainbow wings was near,
To enhance each pleasure and to calm each fear,
They only come to make my pangs more keen,
And shew me what my days of bliss have been—
As round some hapless ruin sunbeams play,
And gild the tottering pile Laughing the wreck to scorn and mocking its decay.
When Winter o'er us holds his rigid reign, Have you ne'er seen your breath upon the pane, By frost congeal'd, a thousand forms display, Till at your near approach they melt away; And for the steeples, towns, and towers that rose, Through the clear crystal frowns a field of snows t
Thus the fond wretch, condemned through life to sigh,
Looks at the glass which hides futurity,
With joy extatic scans the shining scene,
Nor dreams what dangers lurk behind the screen,
But rushing on to grasp the promised prize,
Sees the frail frostwork fade before his eyes;
And for the fairy-veil which fancy flung
Bedeck'd with silver, and with jewels hung,
He finds behind a bleak and barren plain,
Where one wan winter holds eternal reign !
Courtship consists in a number of quiet attentions not so pointed as to alarm, nor so vague as not to be understood. Sterne.
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flowers, the bloom is shed, Or like the snow falls in the river A moment white then melts for ever.
Burns.
Le lache craint la mort, et c'est tout ce qu'il craint.
Racine.
It has been and still is the fate of superior genius to be beheld either with silent or abusive envy. It makei ill way like the sun which we look upon with pain, unless something passes over him that obscures his glory. We then view with eagerness the shadow, the cloud, or the spot, and are pleased with what eclipses the brightness, we otherwise cannot bear. ,
If good we plant not, vice will fill the mind, And weeds take up the space for flowers designed, The human heart ne'er knows a state of rest, Bad hearts to worse, and better tends to best— We either gain or lose; we sink or rise, Nor rests our struggling nature till it dies; Those very passions that our peace invade, If rightly pointed, blessings may be made.
It was the dying advice of the great and good Kitwarden, that no man should suffer on any account, not even on account of his own murder, without a fair trial; words which ought to be engraven on his tomb-stone in letters of gold, and which deserve to be transmitted to posterity, as the motto of the family to which he was so great an honour and so bright an ornament. When arrested by ruffians, and expiring under the repeated wounds of assassins, he raised the last efforts of exhausted nature to bequeath to his country a legacy which will ever be remembered with gratitude. Who hears the name but must lament that the star which shone conspicuous in the legal hemisphere, and the dawn of whose early coruscation promised a full blaze of meridian splendour, is, alas! set for ever ? And if I may be allowed to mix my private griefs with the public sorrow, suffer me to lament that I have lost the friend of my youth, the companion of my maturer years, my fellow labourer in the fields of science, and my coadjutor in the administration of justice.
Barky, Viscount Avonmore.
ON THE LOSS OF H.M.S. SALDANAII.
" Britannia rules the waves 1" Heardst thou that dreadful roar? Hark! 'tis bellowed from the caves Where Lough-Swilly's billow raves, And three hundred British graves Taint the shore.
No voice «f life was there : 'Tis the dead that raise that cry; The dead, who rais'd no prayer As they sunk in wild despair, Chaunt in scorn that boastful air Where they lie.
" Rule Britannia" sung the crew When the stout Saldanah sailed; And her colours, as they flew, Flung the warrior-cross to view Which in battle to subdue
Ne'er had fail'd.
Bright rose the laughing morn, (That morn that seal'd her doom;) Dark and sad is her return, And the storm-lights faintly burn, As they toss upon her stern, 'Mid the gloom.
From the lonely beacon's height, As the watchmen gazed around, They saw their flashing light Drive swift athwart the night; Yet the wind was fair, and right To the Sound.
But no mortal power shall now That crew and vessel save—
They are shrouded as they go In a hurricane of snow, And the track beneath her prow Is their grave.
There are spirits of the deep, Who, when the warrant's given, Rise raging from their sleep On rock, or mountain steep, Or 'mid thunder-clouds that keep
The wrath of Heaven.
High the eddying mists are whirl'd As they rear their giant forms; See! their tempest flags unfurl'd,— Fierce they sweep the prostrate world, And the with'rini* lightning's huri'd Through the storms.
O'er Swilly's rocks they soar, Commissioned watch to keep; Down, down, with thundering roar, The exulting Demons pour— The Saldanah floats no more O'er the deep.
The dreadful hest is past— All is silent as the grave; One shriek was first and last— Scarce a death-sob drank the blast, As sunk her tow'ring mast
Beneath the wave.
"Britannia rules the waves !" O vain and impious boast! Go mark, presumptuous slaves, Where he, who sinks or saves, Scars the sands, with countless graves Ilouml your coast.
Thomas Sheridan.
It generally happens that when men of small ambition are very early distinguished by the voice of fame, their thirst of honour is soon quenched, and their desires satiated; whereas deep and solid minds are improved and brightened by marks of distinction which serve as a brisk gale to drive them forward in the pursuit of glory. They do not so much think that they have received a reward, aa they have given a pledge, which would make them blush to fall short of the expectations of the public, and therefore they endeavour by their actions to excel them.
I LOVE the summer calm; I love
Smooth seas below, blue skies above;
The placid lake—the unruffled stream—
The woods that rest beneath the beam;
I love the deep, deep pause that reigns
At highest noon o'er hills and plains;
And own that summer's gentle rule
Is soothing, soft, and beautiful.
But winter, in its angriest form,
Hath charms—' There's grandeur in the,storm.'
When the winds battle with the floods, And bow the mightiest of the woods— When the loud thunder, crash on crash, Follows the lightning's herald flash, And rocks, and spires, and towers are rent, "Tis startling—but magnificent.
Carrinoton.
One of that stubborn sort he is,
Who, if they once grow fond of an opinion, They call it honour, honesty, and faith, And sooner part with life than let it go.
Do we want to contemplate the powers of the Almighty ? We see it in the immensity of the creation. Do we want to contemplate his wisdom t We see it in the unchangeable order by which the incomprehensible whole is governed. Do we want to contemplate his munificence? We see it in the abundance with which he fills the earth. Do we want to contemplate his mercy? We see it in his not withholding that abundance even from the moat unthankful.
Have-you not seen the timid tear Steal trembling from mine eye ?
Have you not marked the flush of fear, Or caught the mur mured sigh !
And can you think my love shall chill,
Nor fixed on you alone ? And can you rend by doubting still,
A heart too much your own ?
To you my soul's affections move,
Devoutly, warmly true; My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you; If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you'll try, Alas! I know but one proof more
I'll bless your name—and die !
O blessed health! thou art above all gold and trea»ure; 'tis thou who enlargest the soul, and openest all its powers to receive instruction, and to relish virtue. He, that has thee, has little more to wish for; and he who is so wretched as to want thee, wants every thing with thee! Sterne.
True happiness is not the gentle growth of earth The toil is fruitless if you seek it here,
'Tis an exotic of-celestial birth,
And never blooms, but in celestial air.
Sweet plant of Paradise ! Thy seeds are sown, In here and there, a mind of heavenly mould;
It rises slow, and blooms—but ne'er was known To ripen here—the climate is too cold.
When man has shut the door unkind On Pity, earth's divinest guest,
The wanderer never fails to find A sweet abode in Woman's breast.
A Mas that hath no virtue in himself, ever envieth virtue in others; for men's minds will either feed upon their own good, or upon other's evil; and who wanteth the one will prey upon the other; and whoso is out of hope to attain another's virtue will seek to come at even hand by depressing another's fortune. Bacon.
Who hath not proved—how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray ? Who doth not feel until his failing sight Faints into dimness from its own delight— His changing cheek—his sinking heart confess, The might, the majesty of loveliness f
Byron.
" If a stranger had at this time 1782, gone into the province of Oudc, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowla, that man who with a savage heart, and all his ferocity in war, had still, with a cultivating hand, preserved to his country the riches which it derived from henignant skies, and a prolific soil.—If this stranger, ignorant of what had happened in the short interval, and observing all the horrors of the scene—plains unclothed and brown—vegetation burnt up and extinguished—villages depopulated and in ruins—temples unroofed and perishing—reservoirs broken down and dry — he would naturally inquire, what war had thus laid waste the fields of this once beautiful country ? what civil dissensions had thus torn asunder the happy societies that once possessed these villages ? what disputed succession ? what religious rage has with unholy violence demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent but unobtruding piety in the exercise of its duties ? what merciless enemy has thus spread the horrors of fire and sword ? what severe visitation of providence has thus dried up the fountains, and taken from the face of the earth every vestige of green ? or rather, what monsters have poisoned with pestiferous breath, what their voracious appetite could not devour ? To such questions, what must be the answer ? No wars have ravaged these lands—no civil dissensions have been felt—no disputed succession—no religious rage —no merciless enemy—no afflictions of providence which, while it scourged for the moment, cut off the sources of resuscitation—:no voracious and poisoning monster—no— all this has been accomplished by the friendship, generosity
and kindness of the English nation! They have embraced us with their protecting arms—and, these are the fruits of their alliance. What then, shall we be told, that under such circumstances the exasperated feelings of a whole people, thus goaded on to resistance, were excited by the influence of the Begums t When we hear the description of the paroxysm, into which despair had thrown the natives, when on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for death, they tore open their wounds to accelerate their dissolution, and while their blood was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to heaven, breathing their last prayer that the dry earth might not ba suffered to drink their blood, but that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse the eternal providence to avenge the wrongs of their country, will it be said that all this was brought about by the incantations of these Begums in their secluded Zenana 1 or that they could kindle this despair in the breast of a people who felt no grievance and had suffered no torture ? what motive then could have such influence in their bosoms ? That which nature plants in the bosom of man, which, though it may be less active in the Indian, than in the Englishman, is still congenial with his being. That feeling which tells him that man was never made to be the property of man—but that when, in the insolence of power, one human creature dares to tyrannize over another, it is a power usurped and that resistance is a duty : that feeling which tells him that all power is delegated for the good, not for the injury of the people: that principle which tells him that resistance to usurped power, is not only a duty to himself, and to his neighbour, but a duty to
his God in asserting the rank which he gave him in the creation ! To that common God, who where he gave the form of man, whatever may be the complexion, gives also the feelings and rights of man.
Sheridan's Speech On The Beuum Charge.
I Want the words,
To pay you back a compliment so courtly; But my heart guesses at the friendly meaning And won't die your debtor.
Celestial happiness t whoe'er she stoops To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, And one alone, to make her sweet amends For absent heav'n—the bosom of a friend; Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, Each other's pillow to repose divine. Beware the counterfeit! in passion's flame Hearts melt, but melt like ice, soon harder froze. True love strikes root in reason, passion's foe, Virtue alone entenders us for life, ' I wrong her much—entenden us for ever.
Younb.
Go, forget me—why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me—and to-morrow - Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Sinile—though I shall not be near thee; Sing—though I shall never hear thee:
May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine. Go, forget me, &c.
Like the sun, thy presence glowing,
Clothes the meanest things in light; And when thou, like him, art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night. All things look'd so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee, By that pure and lucid mind, Earthly things were too refined. Like the sun, &c.
/ Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me.no longer beaming—
Hope and beauty! fare ye well ! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benighted; Glory's burning—generous swell, Fancy and the poet's shell. Go, thou vision, &c.
Charles Wolfe.
LINES SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY LOUD BYRON IN HIS BIBLE.
Within this awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries. Oh ! happiest they of human race To whom our God has given grace To hear, to read, to fear, to pray, To lift the latch and force the way; But better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
Methinks if ye would know
How visitations of calamity
Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye here !
Look yonder at that cloud which, thro' the sky
Sailing along, doth cross in her career
The rolling moon ! I watched it as it came,
And deem'd the deep opake would blot her beams;
But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs
In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes
The orb with richer beauties than her own;
Then passing, leaves her in her light serene ! Southey.
If misery be the effect of virtue, it ought to be reverenced; if of ill fortune, to be pitied; and if of vice, not to be insulted, because it is perhaps itself a punishment adequate to the crime by which it was produced; and the humanity of that man can deserve no panegyric, who is capable of reproaching a criminal in the hands of the executioner. Johnson.
But he possesses not that even temperature of mind which steers clear of extremes : he never could do any thing in moderation. However different might become the object of pursuit, the ardour of the chase with him still remained the same; and the greater the impetus with which he had rushed on inany direction, the stronger, when he met with a check, became the recoil in the opposite direction.
Vice cannot fix, and Virtue cannot change; The once-fall'n woman must for ever fall, For Vice must have variety, while Virtue Stands like the sun; and all which rolls around Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect!
Byron.
The heart wants something to be kind to; and it conloles us for the loss of society, to see even an animal derive happiness from the endearments we bestow on it.
SONNET TO THE MOON.
Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam Alone and pensive I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think, fair planet of the night!
That in thy orb the wretched may have rest: The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere, And the sad children of despair and woe
Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here. Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this troubled scene.
Charlotte Smith.
Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more. Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint: 'Tis not of things o'er thought to domineer. Guard well thy thought: our thoughts are heard in Heav'n.
Young.
Whatever turns the soul inward on itself tends to concentre its forces, and to fit it for greater and stronger flights of science. Bcjrke.
CANZONET.
O.weep not thus—we both shall know
Ere long a happier doom; There is a place of rest below, Where thou and I shall surely go, And sweetly sleep, released from woe,
Within the tomb.
My cradle, was the couch of care,
And sorrow rock'd me in it; Fate seem'd her saddest robe to wear, On the first day, that saw me there, And darkly shadow'd with despair,
My earliest minute.
E'en then the griefs I now possess,
As natal boons were given; And the fair form of happiness, Which hover'd round, intent to bless, Scar'd by the phantoms of distress,
Flew back to heaven!
For I was made in joy's despite,
And meant for misery's slave; And all my hours of brief delight Flew, like the speedy winds of night, Which soon shall veil their sullen flight
Across my grave! Lord Stranqford's Translation Of Camoens.
Le plus malheureux de tous les homines est celui qui croit de 1' etre, car le malheur depend moins des choses qu' on soufire, que de 1* impatience avec laquelle on augmente son malheur. Fenelok.
Was ever a great discovery prosecuted, or an important benefit conferred upon the human race, by him, who was incapable of standing, and thinking, and feeling alone 1
Oh! for a tongue to curse the slave,
Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave,
And blasts tlK-in in their hour of might. May life's unblcss d cup for him Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim, With hopes, that but allure to fly,
With joys, that banish while he sips Like Drad-sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips; His country's curs?, his children's shame, Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, May he, at last, with lips of flame, On the parch'd desert, thirsting die, While lakes that shone in mockery nigh Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted, Like the once glorious hopes he blasted! And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just prophet, let the damn'd one dwell Full in the sight of paradise,
Beholding heav'n, and feeling hell!
Moore.
Remorse, while the party against whom we have offended still retains its resentment, and regards us with disdain, scarcely raises the outermost cuticle of the heart: it is from the hourm which we are forgiven that the true remorse commences.
Busy, curious, thirsty fly, Drink with me, and drink as I; Freely welcome to my cup, Could'st thou sip, and sip it. up; Make the most of life you may, Life is short and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine, Hast'ning quick to their decline : Thine's a summer, mine's no more, Though repeated to threescore, Threescore summers, when they're gone, Will appear as short as one.
Men own each little fault and -failing, But of their heavier sins, not one; A thousand 'gainst their memories railing; But 'gainst their understanding—none.
From The German Op Leander.
There is an active principle in the human soul, that will ever be exerting its faculties to the utmost stretch, in whatever employment, by the accidents of time and place, the general plan of education, or. the customs and manners of the age and country, it may happen to find itself engaged. Blackstone.
The chiefs whose dust around them shimber'd.
They fell devoted, but undying; The very gale their names seem'd sighing : The waters murmured of their name; The woods were peopled with their fame; The silent pillar, lone and gray, Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay; Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain; The meanest rill, the mightiest river, Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. Despite of every yoke she bears, That land is glory's still and theirs! 'Tis still a watch-word to the earth: When man would do a deed of worth He points to Greece and turns to tread, So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head: He looks to her, and rushes on Where life is lost, or freedom won.
Byron.
O! Let thy soul remember, what the will of heaven ordains is good for all; and if for all, then good for thee.
Akenside.
In hope a king doth go to war,
In hope a lover lives full long, In hope a merchant sails full far,
In hope just men do suffer wrong; In hope the ploughman sows his seed; Thus hope helps thousands at their need; Then faint not, heart, among the rest, Whatever chance, hope thou the best.
Richard Alison.
It were better to have no opinion of God at all than such an opinion as is unworthy of him, for the one is unbelief, the other is contumely. Bacon.
TO SENSIBILITY.
Celestial spring to nature's favourites given,
Fed by the dews which bathe the flowers of heaven,
From the pure chrystal of thy fountain flow,
The tears that trickle o'er another's woe,
The silent drop that calms our own distress
The gust of rapture at a friend's success.
Thine the soft show'rs down beauty's breast that steal
To soothe the heart-wounds they can never heal;
Thine too, the tears of extasy that roll,
When genius whispers to the list'ning soul:
And thine the hallow'd flood that drowns the eye,
When pure religion lifts the thoughts on high.
Nobility may exist in name, the sovereign may confer titles, the herald blazon out the descent, but solid glory and real greatness are inseparably connected with virtue.
The love of praise, howe'er concealed by art, . Reigns, more ur less, and glows in every heart: The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure : The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
Young.
Fade, flowers, fade! nature will have it so; 'Tis but what we must in our Autumn do ! And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground, The loss alone by those that loved them found; So in the grave shall we as quiet lie, Miss'd by some few that loved our company; But some so like to thorns and nettles live, That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.
From The French By Waller.
It is our nature when we do not know what may happen to us to fear the worst that can happen; and hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible that we often seek to be rid of it at the hazard of certain mischief.
Burke.
Br those, that deepett feel, are ill expresj'd, The indistinctness of the suffering breast; Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, Which seeks from all the refuge found in none, No words suffice the secret soul to show, And truth denies all eloquence to woe.
Bjbon.
When a resolution is once formed, the mind gains a sort of composure from the anticipation of putting it into effect, and from the expectation of the event proving favourable to its wishes.
Pause here, and think:—a monitory rhyme Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein; Seems it to say, ' Health here has long to reign ?' Hast thou the vigour of thy youth ?—an eye That beams delight ?—a heart untaught to sigh 2 Yet fear!—Youth ofttimes, healthful and at ease, Anticipates a day it never sees, And many a silent tomb, like mine, aloud Exclaims, ' Prepare thee for an early shroud !' On A Tablet In Ryde Church, To The Memory Of Elizabeth Lowe, JEt. 15, By Cowper.
What hero like the man who stands himself, Who dares to meet his naked heart alone, Who hears intrepid, the full charge it brings, Resolv'd to silence future murmurs there ? The coward flies, and flying is undone.
Youno.
DISAPPOINTMENT.
Come Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypresi twine.
Though fancy flies away
Before thy hollow tread, Yet meditation in her cell, Hears with faint eye, the lingering knell That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile and say, my all was not laid here.
Come Disappointment, come!
Though from hope's summit hurl'd, Still rigid nurse thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from Heaven
To wean me from the world;
To turn my eye From vanity And point to scenes of bliss, that never, never die !
What is this passing scene ? A peevish April day ! A little sun—a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain And all things fade away. Man soon Yields up his trust And all his hopes lie with him in the dust!
Oh, what is beauty's power ?
It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek, Beneath its surface lies 1 Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall-; Her praise resounds no more, when mantled in her pall.
The most belov'd on earth,
Not long survive to day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, And now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade, In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb, the form belov'd is laid.
Then since this world is vain
And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat 1 Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.
Come Disappointment, come ! Thou art not stern to me; Sad monitress, I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee: From sun to sun Thy race will run, I only bow, and say, my God, thy will be done!
Kirke White.
Books are faithful repositories, which may be awhile neglected or forgotten; but when they are opened again, will again impart their Instruction : memory, once interrupted, is not to be recalled. Written learning is a fixed luminary, which, after the cloud that had hidden it has passed away, is again bright in its proper station. Tradition is but a meteor, which, if it once falls, cannot be rekindled. Johnson.
OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.
Read and revere the sacred page, a page Where triumphs immortality; a page Which not the whole creation could produce; Which not the conflagration shall destroy : 'Tis printed in the mind of Gods for ever, In nature's ruins not one letter lost.
Young.
A YOUNG MAN.
Hee is now out of nature's protection, though not yet ahle to guide himselfe; but left loose to the world and fortune, from which the weaknesse of his childhood preserved him, and now his strength exposes him. Hee is indeed, just of age to bee miserable; yet, in his owne conceit, first begins to be happy; and he is happier in this imagination, and his misery, not felt, is less. Hee sees yet but the outside of the world and men, and conceives them according to their appearing glister and out of this ignorance believes them. Hee pursues all vanities for happinesse, and enjoys them best in this fancy. His reason serves not to curbe, but understands his appetite and prosecute the motion thereof with a more eager earnestness; himself is his own temptation, and needs not Satan; and the world will come hereafter. Hee leaves repentance for gray hayres, and performs it in being covetous. Hee is mingled with the ices of the age, as the fashion and c ustome, with which hee longs to bee acquainted, anil shines to better his understanding. He conceives his youth as the season of his lust; and the houre wherein he ought to be bad : and, because he would not lose his time, spends it. Hee distasts religion as a sad thing, and is six yeares elder for a thought of heaven. Hee scorues and feares, and yet hopes for old age, but dare not imagine it with wrinkles. Hee loves, and hates with the same inflamation : and when the heat is over, is coole alike to friends and enemies. His friendship is seldom so stedfast, but that lust, drinke, or anger, may overturne it. He offers you his blood to day in kindnesse, and is readie to take yours tomorrow. He does seldom anything which hee wishes not to doe againe, and is onely wise after a misfortune. He suffers much for his knowledge; and a great deale of folly it is makes him a wise man. He is free from many vices, by being not grown to the performance, and is onely more virtuous out of weaknesse. Every action is his danger, and every man his ambush. Hee is a shippe without pilot or tackling, and only good fortune may steere him. If hee scape this age, hee has 'scapt a tempest, and may live to be a man.
No voice has silence ?—not if sound alone Can to another's heart disclose our own; Utter our woes; or, when our souls rejoice, Vent the full bliss-—but silence has a voice ! When the fixed eye has seen the form it loved, With the last throb of ebbing nature moved,
«
And litill is iix'd, as loth the sight to leave, Till lingering hope, no longer can deceive, Till all is o'er, and the fond ear in vain Listens to catch the faint short breath again; Has she no voice? What eloquence of speech Can like her simple heartfelt language teach ?
Those only who have felt what it was to have the genial current of their souls chilled by neglect, or changed by unkindness, can sympathize in the feelings of wounded affection, when the overflowings of a generous heart are confined within the limits of its own bosom.
To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise,
And may itself procure what it presumes. Young.
But, happy they ! the happiest of their kind,
Whom gentle stars unite, and in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.
'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love;
Where friendship full exerts her softest power,
Perfect esteem, enlivened by desire
Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;
Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,
With boundless confidence; for nought but love
Can answer love, and render Mijs secure.
Thomson.
Ah Zelica! there was a time when, blisi Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his; When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer! When round him hung such a perpetual spell, Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days! when if he touch'd a flower, Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him, till every tone, And gesture, and dear look became thy own; Thy voice like his; the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice the aerial sweetness it had brought!
Moore.
EXTRACT FROM A TRANSLATION OF AN IRISH ODI.
Pulse of my beating heart, shall all My hopes of thee and peace be fled ? Unheeded wilt thou hear me fall ? Unpitied wilt thou see me dead ? I'll make a cradle of rny breast, Thy image dear its ihild shall be; My throbbing heart shall rock to rest Those cares which waste my life and me.
Distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. Objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are melted down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. There are mists too in the mental as in the natural horizon to conceal what is less pleasing in distant objects; and there are happy light! to stream in full glory upon those points which can profit by brilliant illumination. Walter Scott.
ON THE DEATH OF HER ROYAL HIOHNE8S THE PIUNCESS CHARLOTTE.
'Tis not the luxury of grief That by indulgence finds relief, 'Tis not the heart that fools the eye, Ere yet the tearful cheek is dry; Which speaks the desolated breast, And asks of heaven no earthly rest: But 'tis the eye that cannot sleep, That cannot smile, that cannot weep; The heart that, feeling, scarcely beats, While the slow shivering blood retreats; The woe that others may not share, The night—the morning—of despair. For which no sunshine t.reaks the gloom That gathers o'er the yawning tomb ! Such, Coburg ! while in bliss elate, Has been thy doubly deathful fate :
A bridegroom withered in love'i prime ,
A father heirless out of time;
Dissolv'd by one dismaying stroke,
The filial tie, and nuptial yoke.
Cold is her heart so lately warm,
That now the colder urn incloses;
And stretched at length the fairest form
That now in coffin'd shroud reposes.
Oh ever loved ! too early fled—
Thus numbered with the silent dead;
And with thee gone, from earth beguiled,
Our infant hope, thy cherub child!
Britannia, for her first born dead,
Refuses to be comforted !
But what is life ?
'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air From time to time, or gaze upon the sun; 'Tis to be free. When liberty is gone, Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish.
Addison.
A Man can never be respectable in the eyes of the world, or in his own, except so far as he stands by himself, and is truly independent. He may have friends, he may have domestic connexions, but he must not in these connexions, lose his individuality. Nothing truly great was ever achieved that was not planned or executed in solitary l eclurion.
A Friend is worth all hazards we can run. Poor is the friendless master of a world A world in purchase for a friend is gain.
Young.
THE BLIGHTED ROSE.
How gay was its foliage, how bright was its hue, How it scented the breeze that blew round it—
How carelessly sweet in the valley it grew, 'Till the blight of the mildew had found it.
Now faded, forlorn, scarce the wreck of its charms,
Remain e'en for fancy's renewing; Its branches are bare, and exposed are its thorns,
And it lays the pale victim of ruin.
Discontent is the mildew that fades on the mind, That robs the warm cheek of its roses;
That cankers the breast of the rude or refin'd, Where'er it a moment reposes.
'Tis a wizard, whose touch withers beauty away, And denies every pleasure to blossom;
Insidiously creeps to the heart of its prey, And invites cold despair to the bosom.
The Palmer's Mornino Hymn. Lauded be thy name for ever, Thou, of life the guard and giver ! Thou canst guard thy creatures sleeping, Heal the heart Ion;* broke with weeping, Rule the ouphes and "elves at will That vex the air or haunt the hill, And all the fury subject keep Of boiling cloud and chafed deep ! I have seen and I well know it! Thou hast done, and thou wilt do it! God of stillness and of motion ! Of the rainbow and the ocean ! Of the mountain, rock, and river! Blessed be thy name ibr ever; I have seen thy wond'rous might Through the shadows of the night! Thou who slumber'st not, nor steepest, Blest are they thou kindly keepest! Spirits, from the ocean under, Liquid flame, and levell'd thunder, Need not waken nor alarm them— All combined, they cannot harm them. God of evening's yellow ray; God of yonder dawning day, That rises from the distant sea Like breathings of eternity ! Thine the flaming sphere of light! Thine the darkness of the night!
Thine are all the gems of even, God of angels ! God of heaven! God of life, that fade shall never, Glory to thy name for ever.
Hogs.
Young men in the conduct and manage of actions embrace more than they can hold, stir more than they can quiet; fly to the end without consideration of the means and degrees; pursue some few principles which they have chanced upon absurdly; care not to innovate, which draws unknown inconveniencies; use extreme remedies at first, and, that which doubleth all errors, will not acknowledge or retract them. Bacon.
From The Italian Of Metastasio.
Waters from the ocean borne,
Bathe the valley and the hill, Prison'd in the fountain mourn,
Warble down the winding rill: But wherever doom'd to stray,
Still they murmur and complain, / Still pursue their lingering way,
Till they join their native main. After many a year of woe,
Many a long, long wandering past, Where at first they learned to flow;
There they hope to rest at last.
"filial duty, it was impossible to describe by words .but a description by words was unnecessary. It was that duty which all fett and understood, and which required not the power of language to explain. It was more properly to be called a principle than a duty. It required not the aid of memory; it needed not the exercise of understanding; it waited not the slow deliberations of reasoning; it flowed spontaneously from the fountain of our feelings; it was involuntary in our feelings; it was a quality of our being, innate and coeval with life, which, though afterwards cherished as a passion, was independent of our mental powers; it was earlier than all intelligence in our souls; it displayed itself in the earliest impulses of the heart, and was an emotion of fondness that returned in smiles of gratitude the affectionate solicitudes, the tender anxieties, the endearing attentions, experiences, before memory began, but which were not less dear for not being remembered. It was the sacrament of nature in our hearts, by which the union of parent and child wa» sealed and rendered perfect in the community of love, and which strengthening and ripening with life, acquired vigour from the understanding, and was most lively and active when most wanted; when those who had supported infancy were sinking into age, and when infirmity and decrepitude found their best solace in the affections of the children they had reared. But I am ashamed to take up so much of your lordships' time in attempting to give a picture of filial duty, when I see so many breathing testimonies in this assembly, and when I see every feature beaming and erecting itself in confession of the universal principle."
Sheridan's Speech On The Begum Charge.
Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering heaven holds dear,
Tis the last libation liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!
Moore.
Nature, in zeal for human amity, Denies or damps an undivided joy. Joy is an import; Joy is an exchange; Joy flies monopolists, it calls for two : Rich fruit! heav'n planted ! never pluck'd by one.
Young.
It must be so—Plato, thou reason's! well!
Else whence this pleasing hop^, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality ?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis heav'n itself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful, thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect, lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will 1 hold. If there's a power above us,
(And that there is all nature crie s aloud
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in, must be happy. I'm weary of conjectures—this must end 'em;
[Laying his hand on his tword.
But when! or where !—this world was made for Caisar. Thus am I doubly arm'd : my death, my life, My bane and antidote are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shall nourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Addison.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home; And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind: As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations make their blessings even.
Goldsmith.
Sorrow is proud, and lonely, and would close
Our doors against inquirers, vainly kind;
But fear i* mean, and hungrily inclin'd
To catch at crumbs from strangers or from foes;
And it would drive us pitiably io seek
The starveling hope that common callers give :
We swallow'd greedily what they did speak,
For they were sure to say—' The child will live.'
Scott.
The day, which makes a man a slave, takes away half his worth; and he loses every incentive to action, but the base one of fear.
ON SEEING IN A LIST OF MUSIC THE " WATERLOO WALTZ."
A MOMENT pause, ye British fair,
While pleasure's phantom ye pursue, And say if sprightly dance or air, Suit with the name of " Waterloo ?" Awful was the victory, Chasten'd should the triumph be; Amidst the laurels nobly won, Britain mourns for many a son.
Veil'd in clouds the morning rose;
Nature seem'd to mourn the day, Which consign'd, before its close,
Thousands to their kindred clay :
How unfit for courtly ball, Or the giddy festival, Was the grim and ghastly view, Ere evening closed on Waterloo!
See the highland warrior rushing
Firm in danger on the foe, Till the life-blood warmly gushing, Lays the plaided hero low !
His native pipes' accustomed sound, 'Mid war's infernal concert drown'd. Cannot soothe the last adieu, Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.
Chasing o'er the cuirassier,
See the foaming charger flying, Trampling in his wild career, All alike, the dead and dying. See the bullets thro' his side, Answer'd by the spouting tide; Helmet, horse, and rider too, Roll on bloody Waterloo !
Shall scenes like these the dance inspire,
Or wake the enlivening notes of mirth I No! shiyer'd be the recreant lyre, That gave this dark idea birth. Other sounds, I ween, were there, Other music rent the air, Other waltz the warriors knew, When they clos'd on Waterloo.
Forbear, till time, with lenient hand,
Has sooth'd the pangs of recent sorrow, And let the picture distant stand,
The softening hue of years to borrow. When our race have passed away, Hands unborn may wake the lay, And give to joy alone the view Of Britons' deeds at Waterloo !
The firmest mind will fail
Beneath misfortune's stroke, and stunn'd depart From its sage plan of action.
When I am nothing, let that which I was Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, A shadow in thy fancy of a thing Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember.
Byron.
Ode To The Cuckoo. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grovel
Thou messenger of spring ! Now heaven repairs thy rural Beat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet,
From birds among the bowers. "
The schoolboy wandering through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on her bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear, Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year !
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.
Logan.
" Mr. Hastings, was born and educated in the glorious principles of equal freedom; in a country whose boast and glory it was to disseminate those principles, wherever its victories, its powers, or its virtues pervaded. That such a man should become a tyrant, militated against every principle of man; yet here we saw a monster, a philosophical tyrant—a cool, deliberate, reasoning tyrant—who violated the rights of man, with a perfect consciousness of what those rights were—and who endowed with the knowledge of the equal rank as to freedom, 'granted by the deity to human kind, arraigned the wisdom of proviJence by opposing its dispensations in favour of his species. A tyrant against man is a libeller ofGod." Sheridan.
When Love once pleads admission to our hearts, (In spite of all the virtue we can boast) The woman that deliberates is lost.
Addison.
Oh ! 'tis not Hinda in the power Of fancy's most terrific touch,
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour— Thy silent agony—'twas such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt, and liv'd to tell
No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things, within the cold rock found Alive, when all's congeal'd around. But there'* a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt through all thy breast and brain—
That spasm of terror, mute, intense,
That breathless, agoniz'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking ! Moore.
Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? No, the wild bliss of nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh 1 what were man ?—a world without a sun!
Campbell.
Surely there is nothing in the world short of the most undivided reciprocal attachment, that has such power over the workings of the human heart, as the mild sweetness of nature. The most ruffled temper when emerging from the town will subside into a calm at the sight of a wild stretch of landscape reposing in the twilight of a fine evening. It is then that the spirit of peace settles upon the heart, unfetters the thoughts, and elevates the soul to the Creator. It is then that we behold the parent of the universe in his works; we see his grandeur in earth, sea, And sky; we feel his affection in the emotions which they raise, and half-mortal, half-etherealized, forget where we are in the anticipation of what that world must be, o f which this lovely earth is merely the shadow.
Mrsa Porter.
f
Should fate command me to the farthest ver ge
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on th' Atlantic isles : 'tis nought to me :
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full;
And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go
Where universal love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their sons;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in light ineffable !
Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise.
Thomson.
Ax length I play'd them one as frank,
For time at last sets all things even— And if we do Lut watch the hour, There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search, and vigil long,
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
Byron.
TO WOMAN.
Oh thou ! by heav'n ordain'd to be
Arbitress of man's destiny !
From thy sweet lip one tender sigh,
One glance from thine approving eye,
Can raise or bend him at thy will,
To virtue's noblest nights, or worst extremes of ill '.
Be angel minded! and despise
Thy sex's little vanities;
And let not passion's lawless tide
Thy better purpose sweep aside;
For woe awaits the evil hour,
That tends to man's annoy thy heav'n entrusted power.
Woman! 'tis thine to cleanse his heart
From every gross, unholy part;
Thine, in domestic solitude,
To win him to be wise and good;
His pattern, guide, and friend, to be,
To give him back the heaven he forfeited for thee.
Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,
But leave—oh ! leave, the light of Hope behind!
What though my winged hours of bliss have been,
Like angel-visits, few and far b.tween!
Her musing mood shall every pang appease,
And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please !
Campbell.
u
Yes—they whom candour and true taste inspire, Blame not with half the passion they admire: Each little blemish with regret descry, But mark the beauties with a raptur'd eye.
There is perhaps no feeling of our nature so complicated, so vague, so mysterious, as that with which we look upon the cold remains of our fellow mortals. The dignity with which death invests even the meanest of his victims, inspires us with an awe no living creature can create. The monarch on his throne is less awful than the beggar in his shroud. The marble features, the powerless hand, the stiffened limbs, the eye closed and glazed,—Oh can we contemplate these with feelings which can be defined ? These are the mockery of all our hopes and fears; of our fondest love, and of our fellest hate.
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, The post of honour is a private station.
Addison.
Hafsd, my own beloved lord, She kneeling cries—-first, last ador'd I If in that soul thou'st ever felt Half what thy lips impassion 'd swore,
Here, on my knees that never knelt
To any but their God before, I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly—
Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh, Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither
Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea, East—west—alas, I care not whither,
So thou art safe, and I with thee ! Go where we will, this hand in mine,
Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
The world's a world of love for us ! On some calm blessed shore we'll dwell, Where 'tis no crime to love too well: Where thus to worship tenderly An erring child of light like thee, Will not be sin — or if it be, Where we may weep our faults away, Together kneeling, night and day; Thou for my sake at Alla's shrine, And I—at any god's for thine.
Moore.
Home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of p?ace, and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polished friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.
Thomson. TO HIS WIFE, ON THE DEATH OF THEIR SON.
Yet still I owe a debt—it must be paid— Tis due to her whose life hath dropt in shade; A quick eclipse hath come, and wrapt her dark: If he was lovely—he by her was made Of her own fashion; I had but to mark How in her ray his youthful soul grew bright, A tender planet and its satellite. These were my lustres—I have seen both fail- One is extinguish'd—one is shorn and pale, Patiently setting with a silent wane— Looking a loss that nothing can regain.
Scot.
TO A TEAR.
Hail! little tell-tale of the heart, Most bitter and most sweet I
Form'd to relieve misfortune's smart, To bid dull care retreat.
Hail! little drop, like crystal clear, Oft shed by beauty's eye,
Whenever pity claims the tear Of sensibility!
For your bland waters do not know
A selfish source alone; Oft have I seen their fountains flow
For sorrows not their own.
Nor do your powers alone bestow
A balm to soften care; To lull the rankling throbs of woe,
Or mitigate despair;
You likewise bring a remedy, Where joys extatic reign,
Where pleasures, turn'd to agony, Oppress the madd'ning brain.
As when of rain, a kindly shower, In summer's parching day,
Disarms the light'ning of its power And cools the sultry ray,
Thus, your refreshing streams avail
The passions to abate : The painful thrills of bliss to heal,
To rob grief of its weight.
Ce qu'on cherche pour £tre heureux est trop souvent precis^ment ce qui empeche de 1' etre.
Fenelon.
Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweete; Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with h is feete.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amid my tender breast: My kisses are his daily feast : And yet he robs me of my rest.
Strike I my lute—he tunes the string, He music plays, if so I sing; He lends me every living thing, Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting.
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod; He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; O, Cupid so thou pity me, I will not wish to part from thee.
Lodge.
Needful auxiliaries are our friends, to give To social man true relish of himself. Full on ourselves descending in a line, Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight: Delight intense is taken by rebound; Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.
Young.
Whence comes this keen, this cutting smart; Why doth the tear unbidden start 1 Why beats my sad, my sinking heart
Thus heavily ? Eliza, 'tis because I part
My life, from thee.
Tossed on the rude and foaming wave, O'er which the howling tempests rave, In distant climes I go to brave
The furious sea— My doom, perhaps a watery grave,
Far, far, from thee.
Oh! say, thou all on earth I prize, Will thou my absence mourn with sighs, And heav'n invoke, with uplift eyes
To speed my way 1 Wilt thou ?—but see the signal flies,
I must not stay.
By storms that sweep the deep abyss,
By plighted vows, by all our bliss,
By this embrace—and this—and this—
Dear girl be true, Remember love's last parting kiss!
Adieu! Adieu 1
Oh Love 1 what is it in this world of ours,
Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah why
With cypress branches hast thou wreath'd thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh !
As those who doat on odours, pluck the flowers,
And place them on their breast—but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms, but to perish.
Byron.
An enquiry having been ordered into the affairs of the Begums by the directors of the East India Company, Mr. Hastings had contrived to stifle that enquiry by silencing the council at Calcutta by this expression, ' The majesty of justice must be approached with solicitation.' This Mr. Sheridan treated as a piece of bombastic jargon, and thus proceeded, " The majesty of justice, in the eyes of Mr. Hastings, was a being of terrific horror—a dreadful idol placed in the gloom of groves, accessible only to cringing supplication, and which must be approached with offerings, and worshipped by sacrifice. The majesty of Mr. Hastings was a being whose decrees were written with blood, and whose oracles were at once obscure and terrible. From such an idol I turn my eyes with horror; I turn them here to this dignified and high tribunal where the majesty of justice, really sits enthroned. Here I perceive the majesty of justice in her proper robes of truth and mercy —chaste and simple—accessible and patient—awful without severity—inquisitive without meanness. I see her enthroned, and sitting in judgment on a great and mo
mentous cause, in which the happiness of millions is involved. Pardon me, my lords, if I presume to say that in the decision of this great cause you are to be envied as well as venerated. You possess the highest distinction of the human character; for when you render your ultimate voice on this cause, illustrating the dignity of the ancestors from whom you spring, justifying the solemn asseveration which you make, vindicating the people of whom you are a part, and manifesting the intelligence of the times in which you live—you will do such an act of mercy and blessing to man, as no men but yourselves are able to grant. My lords I have done."
0 Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay, Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence, (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear, That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
1 may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile. As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam of the transient show'r, Forgetful, tho' its wings are wet the while : Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure !
Bowles.
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance The charm of every brighten'd glance; And dearer seems each dawning smile, For having lost its light awhile.
Moore.
When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy ? What tears can wash her guilt away 1
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom -is, to die.
Goldsmith.
The wave which commences in the distance, and swells as it approaches the shore, may be compared to the secret desire of the heart which begins silently and softly, but becomes at last irresistible.
What though short my date 1
Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures. That life is long which answers life's great end.
Young.
THE SIGH AND THE TEAR.
Little smother'd struggling sigh, Hopeless mourner ! tell me why You assail my faithful breast, And bereave my heart of rest ? Little sad intruding tear, Why dost thou too linger here ? Is it for thy sister sigh, Thou dost stand as guardian by ?
Haste, away ! or you will prove, That my heart is chain'd by love; Were it not for you alone, Passion there might live unknown; If within his breast you stay, You must ne'er his pangs betray, You may feed upon its woes, But its grief must ne'er disclose.
To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise And may itself procure what it presumes.
Young.
Behold yon gaudy painted flower, Fair opening to the morning rays !
It sprung and blossom'd in an hour,
With night's chill dews its bloom decays,
Yet simple maidens, as they rove,
Mistake, and call it flower o f Love.
But Love's true flower before it springs, Deep in the breast its fibres shoots,
And clasps the heart, and round it clings, And fastens by a thousand roots;
Then bids its strengthen'd blossoms climb,
And brave the chilling power of Time.
His resolution was not the calm sentiment of philosophy, and reason. It was a gloomy and desperate purpose; the creature not of hope, but of a mind austerely held to its daring : that felt as if it were satisfied with the naked effort, and prepared to give success, or miscarriage, to the winds.
Custom without reason is no better than ancient error.
Alas—how light a cause may move
Dissensions between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships, that have gone down at sea,
When heav'n was all tranquillity !
A something light as air—a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken— Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray, They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said: Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds—or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods that part for ever.
Moore.
Man is not an isolated creature : he is a link of one great and mighty chain, and each necessarily has a dependance upon the other. In society he is like the flower blown in its native bed; in solitude, like the blasted shrub of the desert—neither giving nor receiving support, the energies of his nature fail him; he droops, degenerates, and dies.
——— Talents angel bright, Tf wanting worth, are shining instruments In false ambition's hand, to finish faults Illustrious, and give infamy renown. Young,
Man is the creature of interest and ambition.—His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffick of affection; and if shipwrecked her case is hopeless—for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.
Washington Irving.
Lord Byron has thus expressed the same idea : Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.
That indescribable heaviness of heart with which we are occasionally oppressed, and which, although at the moment unaccountable, is frequently 'the harbinger of some misfortune, is thus beautifully described;
" Have you never, holy father, answered the knight, felt an apprehension of approaching evil, for which you in vain attempted to assign a cause ? Have you never found your mind darkened, like the sunny landscape by the sudden cloud which augurs a coming tempest ? And thinke it thou not that such impulses are deserving of attention, as being the hints of our guardian spirits that danger is impending?" Walter Scott.
Man makes a death which nature never made, Then on the point of his own fancy falls, And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Young.
Oh life! thou universal wish, what art thou 1 Thou'rt but a day—a few uneasy hours : Thy morn is greeted by the flocks and herds, And every bird that natters with its note, Salutes thy rising sun: thy noon approaching, Then haste the flies and every creeping insect To bask in thy meridian; that declining,
As quickly they depart, and leave thy evening
To mourn the absent ray: night at hand,
Then croaks the raven conscience, time misspent;
The owl despair screams hideous, and the bat
Confusion flutters up and down—
Life's but a lengthen'd day not worth the waking for.
—— If he speak,
'Tis scarce above a word; as he were born Alone to do, and did disdain to talk; At least to talk where he must not command.
We hear and see, but none defines—
Involuntary sparks of thought,
Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought,
And form a strange intelligence,
Alike mysterious and intense,
Which link the burning chain that binds,
Without their will, young hearts and minds;
Conveying as the electric wire,
We know not how, the absorbing fire.
Byron.
TO A BROTHEB.
- Thou partner of my life and name
From one dear source, whom nature form'd the same,
Allied more nearly in each nobler part,
And more the friend than brother of my heart.
The Almighty believer, by displaying the principles of science in the structure of the universe, has invited man to study and to imitation. It is as if he had said to the inhabitants of this globe, that we call ours, " I have made an earth for man to dwell upon, and I have rendered the starry heavens visible, to teach him science and the arts. He can now provide for his own comfort, and learn from my munificence to all, to be kind to each other."
' But,' is tome a more detestable combination of letters than ' No' itself.—No, is a surly honest fellow, speaks his mind rough and round at once. But is a sneaking evasive half-bred exceptions sort of a conjunction, which comes to pull away the cup just when it is at your lips—
—— it does allay The good precedent—fie upon but yet! But yet is as a jailor to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor.
Walter Scott.
I Can believe that beauty, such as thine, May spread a thousand fascinating snares, To lure the wavering and confound the weak; But what is honour, which a sigh can shake ? What is his virtue, whom a tear can melt ? Truth—valour—justice—constancy of soul— These are the attributes of manly natures : Be woman e'er so beauteous, man was made For nobler uses than to be her slave.
Il n'y a rien de plus injuste qu 'un ignorant. II croit toujours que 1' admiration est le portage des gens que ne savent rien. II condamne toute une piece pour une scene qu' il n' approuve pas. II s' attaque mdme aux endroits lesplus eclatans pour faire croire qu' il a de 1' esprit.
And when angry—for ev'n in the tranquillest climes, Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes— The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.
Moore.
What though wit tickles, tickling is unsafe If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh. Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart ? Parts may be prais'd, good nature is ador'd; Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword, And never on the weak, or you'll appear As there no hero, no great genius here. As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offtnce is seen; Both pain us least when exquisitely keen. The fame men give is for the joy they find, Dull is the jester when the joke's unkind.
Young.
Speaking of the British constitution, Blackstone says, " To sustain, to repair, to beautify this noble pile it a charge intrusted principally to the nobility, and such gentlemen of the kingdom, as are delegated by their country to parliament. The protection of the liberty of Britain is a duty which they owe to themselves, who enjoy it; to their ancestors, who transmitted it down; and to their posterity, who will claim at their hands this, the best birth-right and noblest inheritance of mankind."
Tous les premiers forfaits coutent quelques efforU; Mais, Attale, on commet les seconds sans remords.
Alas for him, who hears her cries!
Still half way down the steep he stands, Watching with fixed and feverish eyes,
The glimmer of those burning brands, That down the rocks, with mournful ray,
Light all he loves on earth, away! Hopeless as they who, far at sea
By the cold moon have just consign'd The corse of one, lov'd tenderly,
To the bleak flood they leave behind; And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back, with sad delay, To watch the moonlight on the wave, That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.
Moore.
The world is bright before thee,
The summer flowers are thine, Its calm blue sky is o'er thee,
Thy bosom, pleasure's shrine; And thine the sunbeam given
To nature's morning hour, Pure, warm, as when from heaven
It burst on Eden's bower.
There is a song of sorrow,
The death-dirge of the gay, That tells ere dawn of morrow,
These charms may melt away; The sun's bright beam be shaded,
That sky be blue no more, The summer flowers be faded,
And youth's warm promise o'er.
Believe it not—though lonely
Thy evening home may be, Though beauty's bark can only
Float on a summer sea; Though time thy bloom is stealing,
There's still beyond his art, The wild flower wreath of feeling,
The sun-beam of the heart!
Fhee love's the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body, and in soul, can bind.
The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath
Feels, in its barrenness, some touch of spring;
And, in the April dew, or beam of May,
Its moss and lichen freshen and revive;
And thus the heart, most seared to human pleasure,
Melts at the tear, joys in the smile of woman.
Beaumont.
Mr. Burke speaking of Mr. Sheridan's celebrated speech on the Begum charge on the trial of Warren Hastings, observed:
Hfihasthis day surprised the thousands whohung with rapture on his accents, bysuch an array of talents, such an exhibition of capacity, such adisplay of powers, as are unparalleled in the annals of oratory; a display that reflected the highest honor on himself—lustre upon letters—renown upon parliament—glory upon the country. Of all species of rhetoric,ofeverykind of eloquence thathasbeen witnessed or recorded either in ancient or modern times; whatever the dignity of the senate, the acutencss of the bar, the solidity of the judgment scat, and the sacred morality of th.3 pulpit, have hitherto furnished, nothing has surpassed, nothing has equalled, what we have heard this day in
Westminster-Hall. No holy seer of religion, no orator, no man of any literary description whatever, has come up in the one instance to the pure sentiments of morality; or in the other, to that variety of knowledge, force of imagination, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and elegance of diction, strength and copiousness of style, pathos and sublimity of conception, to which we have this day listened with ardour and admiration. From poetry up to eloquence there is not a species of composition of which a complete and perfect specimen might not from that single speech be culled and collected.
But yet she listened—'tis enough— Who listens once, will listen twice; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice,
And one refusal no rebuff.
Byron.
Let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame; he who in virtue arms A young warm spirit against beauty's charms, Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.
Moore.
Give sorrows words; the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.
Shakespeare.
THE SIGH.
What means that sigh ! Ah me! must words explain The soft vibrations sighs so well impart ? Compar'd with sighs, proud eloquence how vain, Which toys with fancy to delude the heart: Long in my bosom pent, a smother'd flame, With many an effort, it sustained controul, At length relieving anguish forth it came, And told the tumult of my troubled soul. Told—truths as clear as pearly drops distill'd From evening's tender, bland, and tranquil eye; Like those bright gems by nature's lacteals filled, A myriad atoms swelled the speaking sigh. And ask you what it meant ? impassioned sighs— Loit'rings that speak how much we wish to stay, Murmurings that only wait for kind replies, And him we love to guard us on the way.
Joanna Baillie.
But it is ever thus with happiness, It is the gay to-morrow of the mind That never comes.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness; 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul, Warms ev'ry vein, and beats in ev'ry pulse.
Addison. - Sincerity,
Thou first of virtues! Let no mortal leave The onward path, altho' the earth should gape, And from the gulf of hell, Destruction cry, To take dissimulation's winding way.
Home.
A SPIRITLESS tranquillity may be obtained; but the mind of man, to improve must be agitated : and it is better occasionally to hear the dashing of the waves, than continually to inhale the pestilential effluvia of stagnant waters.
THE JOY OF GRIEF.
Sweet the hour of tribulation, When the heart can freely sigh;
And the tear of resignation
Twinkles in the mournful eye.
Have you felt a kind emotion,
Tremble through your troubled breast; Soft as evening o'er the ocean,
When she charms the waves to rest?
Have you lost a friend, a brother, Heard a father's parting breath;
Gazed upon a lifeless mother,
Till she seemed to wake from d eath 1
Have you felt a spouse expiring— In your arms—before your view?
Watch'd the lovely soul retiring, From her eyes that broke on you.
Did not grief then grow romantic, Raving on remembered bliss;
Did you not with fervour frantic, Kiss the lips that felt no kiss 1
Yes, but when you had resign'd her, Life and you were reconcil'd;
Anna left, she left behind her, One, one dear, and only child !
But before the green moss peeping His poor mother's grave array'd
In that grave the infant sleeping, On the mother's lap was laid.
Horror then your heart congealing, Chill'd you with intense despair; Can you call to mind the feeling ? No, there was no feeling there !
From that gloomy trance of sorrow When you woke to pangs unknown;
How unwelcome was the morrow, For it rose on you alone.
Sunk in self-consuming anguish Can the poor heart always ache 1
No, the tortur'd nerve will languish, Or the strings of life must break.
O'er the yielding brow of sadness, One faint smile of comfort stole,
One soft pang of tender gladness, Exquisitely thrill'd your soul.
While the wounds of woe are healing, While the heart is all resign'd,
'Tis the solemn feast of feeling, Tis the sabbath of the mind.
Pensive memory then retraces Scenes of bliss for ever fled,
Lives in former scenes and places, Holds communion with the dead!
And when night's prophetic slumbers Rend the veil to mortal eyes,
From their tombs the sainted numbers, Of our lost companions rise.
You have seen a friend, a brother, Heard a dear, dearfather speak;
Proved the fondness of a mother, Felt her tears upon your cheek.
Dreams of love your youth beguiling, You have clasp'd a consort's charms,
And received your infant smiling, From his mother's sacred arms.
Trembling, pale, and agonizing, While you mourn the vision gone;
Bright the morning star arising,
Open'd heaven from whence it shone.
Thither all your wishes bending,
Rose in extasy sublime; Thither all your hopes ascending,
Triumph'd over death and time.
Thus afflicted, bruis'd, and broken;
Have you known such sweet relief? Yes my friend, and by that token,
You have felt " The Joy of Grief."
Montgomery.
That which in mean men we entitle—patience, Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Shakespeare.
It may be given to a Hale or a Hardwicke to discover and retract a mistake; the errors of such men are only specks that arise for a moment on the surface of a splendid luminary; consumed by its heat, or irradiated by its light, they soun purge and disappear: but the perverseness of a mean and narrow intellect, is like the excrescences that grow upon a body naturally cold and dark : no fire to waste them, and no ray to enlighten, they assimilate and coalesce with those qualities so congenial to their nature, and acquire an incorrigible permanency in the union with kindred frost and kindred opacity. Curran.
Marianna.—Some sacrifice is due to slandered virtue. dngiolina.—Why what is virtue if it needs a victim 1
Or if it must depend upon men's words ?
The dying Roman said, ' 'twas but a name;'
It were indeed no more, if human breath
Could make or mar it.
Byron.
Think of me
My Edith absent from thee in a land Of strangers ! and remember when my heart Heaves with the sigh of sorrow, what delight Awaits the moment, when the eager voice Of welcome, shall that sorrow overpay !
Southey.
Submit thy fate to heav'n's indulgent care, Though all seem lost, 'tis impious to despair; The tracks of providence like rivers wind, And though immerg'd in earth from human eyes Again break forth, and more conspicuous rise.
His body was emaciated not only with the fasts which he observed with rigid punctuality, but also by the active and unwearied exercise of his sharp and piercing intellect: A fiery soul which working out its way Fretted the puny body to decay; And o'er informed the tenement of clay.
Walter Scott.
——— 'Twas man himself Brought death into the world; and man himself Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiplied destruction on mankind. With joy ambition saw, and soon improv'd The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough By subtle fraud to snatch a single life; Puny impiety ! whole kingdoms fell To sate the lust of power: more horrid still, The foulest stain and scandal of our nature Became its boast. One murder made a villain, Millions a hero. Princes were privileged To kill, and numbers sanctified the crims
Ah'. why will kings forget that they are men ?
And men that they are brethren ? Why delight
In human sacrifice ? Why burst the ties
Of nature, that should knit our souls together,
In one soft bond of amity and love ?
Yet still they breed destruction, still go on
Inhumanly ingenious to find out
New pains for life, new terrors for the grave.
Artificers of death ! Still monarchs dream
Of universal empire growing up
From universal ruin. Blast their design
Great God of Hosts ! nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied victims at ambition's shrine!
PoRTEUS.
No one perhaps, even in the happiest marriage with an object really beloved, ever found all the qualities he expected to possess; but in far too many cases, he has practised a much higher degree of mental deception, and has erected his airy castle of felicity upon some rainbow, which owed its existence only the peculiar state of the atmosphere.
Walter Scott.
He was a man
Versed in the world as pilot in his compass. The needle pointed ever to that interest Which was his load star; and he spread his sails With vantage to the gale of others' passion.
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;
Which comes o'er the bosom, like day o'er the billow To mariners weary and wild with despair;
Which brightens the dungeon, and softens the pillow, And smiles like a rose on our wilderness here.
The mighty and proud in their mansions of pleasure,
May squander their blessings in madness away; The miser may worship his cankering treasure,
Th' atheist deride, and the hypocrite pray With his lips, while his soul is enslaved by ambition; But the being who reigns o'er yon beautiful sphere, Heads the heart, and remembers the sigh of contrition, Nor bruises the reed that is broken and sear.
Truth is to be sought only by slow and painful progress. Error is in its nature flippant and compendious; it hops with airy and fastidious levity over proofs and arguments, and perches upon assertion, which it calls conclusion. CtiRUAM.
THE END.
Thomas White, Printer, 2, Joliuson'l Court.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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