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Many a note and many a lay. Fletcher. Sweet is the breath of morn; her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
The morning lark, the messenger of day,
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,
Dryden. Great brains (like brightest glass) crack straight, while
Is lovely yet;
Mortified he was to that degree,
Suppress thy knowing pride,
Mortify thy learned lust, Vain are thy thoughts, while thou thyself art dust. ?
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high. Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life that fills and warms
Its grateful being first had birth. 'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be,) This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee. Moore.
My mother's voice! how oft doth creep
İts cadence on my lonely hours, Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew on the unconscious flowers. I might forget her melting prayer,
While pleasure's pulses madly fly; But in the still unbroken air,
Her gentle tones come stealing by;
N. P. Willis.
Within my bosom there's a gush
George P. Morris.
Gratiana steers that noble frame,
Immediate are the acts of God, more swift
Virtue, too, as well as vice, is clad
MOTIVE. Why in that rawness left you wife and children, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking?
We ask you whence does motive vigour flow.
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 earthBut instantly receives into his soul A sense, a feeling that he loses notA something that informs him 't is a moment Whence he may date henceforward and for ever.
Rogers. 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. Anon.
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.