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HE was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic;
He could distinguish and divide
A hair 'twixt south, and south-west side.
Logicians use to clap a proposition,
As justices do criminals in prison,
And in as learn'd authentic nonsense writ
The names of all their moods and figures fit!
For a logician's one that has been broke
To ride and pace his reason by the book,
And by their rules, and precepts, and examples,
To put his wits in any kind of trammels.
List! and mark what I say,
I beg of you, that so my lungs have holiday.
He that will be in the right,-having tongue enough,
May triumph with erroneous stuff!
In this case, I being tired of your sophisticated logic,
Hold my tongue! You're right, because I'm logic-sick!
A MIGHTY mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool's head-and there is London town!
Byron. And there is London!-England's heart and soul. By the proud flowing of her famous Thames, She circulates through countless lands and isles Her greatness; gloriously she rules,
At once the awe and sceptre of the world.
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head.
Alone, amid the wide and desert world,
Without a heart to echo to our own.
O! what is all the pomp and play of life!
There is a solitude that lifts the mind
To lofty things; seclusion from the rush
And sin of the unfeeling crowd, whose days
Reap scarce a thought to sanctify their flight:
Far from the city dim, may wisdom haunt
Her lone retreats, and yet not live alone:
For is there not a fellowship of books
Divine-the company of kindling thoughts,
And all that nature yields a grateful mind?
This is not loneliness: to look around
The peopled world, and 'mong its myriad hearts
To find no sympathies to nurse our own;
O! this is loneliness!-that solitude
Of soul which makes the world a desert seem.
SOME say, that ever 'gainst the season comes,
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long,
And then, they say, no spirit walks abroad.
The feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain.
By every circumstance I know he loves;
Yet he but doubts, and parlies, and casts out
Many a long look for succour.
TRUST not the treason of those smiling looks,
Until you have their guileful trains well tried,
For they are like but unto golden hooks,
That from the foolish fish their baits do hide.
Her looks were like beams of the morning sun,
Forth-looking through the windows of the east,
When first the fleecie cattle have begun
Upon the pearled grass to make their feast.
Looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth:
A smile recures the wounding of a frown,
But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth.
He has, I know not what, Of greatness in his looks, and of high fate That almost awes me.
'Tis not the lily brow I prize,
Nor roseate cheeks, nor sunny eyes,
Enough of lilies and of roses!
A thousand-fold more dear to me
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart;
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought.
Thy mild looks are all eloquent,
Thy bright ones free and glad;
Like glances from a Pleiad sent,
Thy sad ones sweetly sad.
The look that gentle love discloses,-
That look which love alone can see.-Coleridge.
Oh, there are looks that kill like lightning flashes; And there are looks like sunbeams warm and cheery.
THOU art a lord, and nothing but a lord.
What is a lord? doth that plain, simple word
Contain some magic spell? as soon as heard,
Like an alarum bell on night's dull ear,
Doth it strike louder and more strong appear
Than other words? whether we will or no,
Thro' reason's court, doth it unquestion'd go,
Ev'n on the mention, and of course transmit
Notions of something excellent, of wit
Pleasing, tho' keen, of humour free, tho' chaste,
Of sterling sense, and with sound judgment grac'd.
Of virtue, far above temptation's reach,
And honour, which no malice can impeach?
Nature exclaim'd with wonder-lords are things, Which, never made by me, were made by kings.
Loss of Eden, till one greater man Restore it, and regain.
Though losses and crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.
"I have lost a day," said Titus, "for this day
To none have I done good." Oh! rather say,
The day this noble sentiment had birth
Shines out transcendant with enduring worth;
Small the material, good thou could'st achieve,—
Transient and limited; but time shall leave
These words a living lesson, potent still,
To sway towards generous deeds the human will,
When he hath strip't of power Imperial Rome,
And crumbled into dust her proudest dome.
PLEAS'D with each other's lot, our own we hate.
Once in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man;-and who was he
-Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown; His name has perished from the earth, This truth survives alone:
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe-a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.
FORTUNE, that with malicious joy,
Does man, her slave, oppress,
Still various, and unconstant still,
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.
Dryden, from Horace. I who have looked on the revolving wheel Of life's great lottery, fearing not the blanks That fortune might turn up for me, am not Like to be o'er-elated at this prize.
THE numbers soft and clear,
Gently stole upon the ear;
Now louder and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies.-Pope.
The soldier that philosopher well blamed,
Who long and loudly in the schools declaimed.