Слике страница
[blocks in formation]


SEE! with what constant motion,
Even and glorious as the sun,

Gratiana steers that noble frame,
Soft as her breast, sweet as her voice
That gave each winding law and poise
And swifter than the wings of fame.

R. Lovelace.

On their own axis as the planets run,
And make at once their circle round the sun;
So two consistent motions act the soul,
And one regards itself, and one the whole.

Immediate are the acts of God, more swift
Than time and motion.

Virtue, too, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had
Beheld, when his high fancy once embraced
Virtue with colour, speech, and motion graced.

We ask you whence does motive vigour flow.


Dost think those gilt and hollow cones
That front an organ cause the tones?
Ah, no! those pealing notes proceed
From tubes of baser metal hid.




WHY in that rawness left you wife and children, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking? Shakspere.

This same remark, we might advance,
Holds good in life's mysterious dance:
In front the pompous pretext find,
But the mean motive skulks behind.







THOUGH sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,

And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life that bloated ease can never hope to share. Byron.

Who first beholds the Alps,-that mighty chain
Of mountains, stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to heaven than earth-
But instantly receives into his soul
A sense, a feeling that he loses not-
A something that informs him 't is a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever.


By day, by night, in calms, in wintry storms, When closely viewed, when dimly distant seen, It matters not; thy endless, giant forms Start from their base with such majestic mien, The soul astonished reels. The dazzling sheen Of thy eternal, trackless, spotless snows, Well shadows forth the purity, I ween, The might, the majesty, the fixed repose Of Him, at whose decree thy gorgeous summits rose! W. H. Leatham.


MOURNERS! is there not

An angel that illumes the house of mourning;
The Spirit of the Dead-a holy image,
Shrined in the soul-for ever beautiful.


They err who say that man to grief is born, That hopeless thousands are but made to mourn; Heaven has not issued such a harsh decreeMan's is the guilt, as man's the misery!

Charles Mackay. He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. H. Taylor.



WHAT's in a name? That, which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet.

Shakspere. Who steals my purse steals trash; 't is something, nothing;

'Twas mine, 't is his, and has been slave to thousands.
But he who filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.

Who gave her a name,
So true to her fame,



Does a providence rule in the fate of a word?
Sways there in heaven a viewless power

O'er the chance of the tongue in the naming hour?
Who gave her a name,

This daughter of strife, this daughter of shame, The spear-wooed maid of Greece. Blackie, from Eschylus. If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind; Or, ravish'd with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame.

He left a name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

Thus peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.



Names alone mock destruction; they survive
The doom of all creation: hence we hive
The rapturous hope of immortality;
Then worship that which never seems to die.


Who hath not paus'd while beauty's pensive eye
Ask'd from his heart the tribute of a sigh?
Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace-the magic of a name?


H. Trevanion.

[blocks in formation]


To study God, God's student, man, was made,
To read him as in nature's text conveyed;
Not as in heaven, but as he did descend
To earth his easier book, where to suspend
And save his miracles, each little flower,
And lesser fly, shows his familiar power.
Sir W. Davenant.

Lo! the poor Indian-whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topped hills, an humbler heaven.


O faithful nature! dictate of the laws
Which govern and support the mighty frame
Of universal being.

Lovely indeed the mimic works of art,
But nature's works far lovelier.



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society where none intrudes

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal,
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.


A deep mysterious sympathy doth bind

The human heart to nature's beauties all; We know not, guess not, of its force or kind, But what it is we know, when ill doth fall Upon us when our hearts are sear'd and riven, We'll seek the forest lands for peace and heaven.

R. Nicol.

[blocks in formation]


THOUGH YOU wake the winds, and let them fight Against the churches, though the yeasty waves Confound and swallow navigations up.


Rude as their ships, was navigation then,
No useful compass or meridian known;
Coasting, they kept the land within their ken,
And knew no north but when the pole-star shone.


Navigation, that withstood

The mortal fury of the flood,
And prov'd the only means to save
All earthly creatures from the wave,
Has, for it, taught the sea and wind
To lay a tribute on mankind,
That by degrees has swallowed more,
Than all it drown'd at once before.

'Tis necessity

To which the gods must yield; and I obey,
Till I redeem it by some glorious way.



WHO, then, can strive with strong necessity,
That holds the world in his still changing state?


When fear admits no hope of safety, then
Necessity makes dastards valiant men.


Beaumont and Fletcher.

Fatal necessity is never known,
Until it strike; and, till that blow be come,
Who falls, is by false visions overthrown.


Lord Brooke.

Strong as necessity he starts away,
Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.


« ПретходнаНастави »