« ПретходнаНастави »
SEE! with what constant motion,
Gratiana steers that noble frame,
On their own axis as the planets run,
Immediate are the acts of God, more swift
Virtue, too, as well as vice, is clad
We ask you whence does motive vigour flow.
Dost think those gilt and hollow cones
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,
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
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;
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.
Who gave her a name,
Does a providence rule in the fate of a word?
O'er the chance of the tongue in the naming hour?
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,
Thus peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
Names alone mock destruction; they survive
Who hath not paus'd while beauty's pensive eye
To study God, God's student, man, was made,
Lo! the poor Indian-whose untutor'd mind
O faithful nature! dictate of the laws
Lovely indeed the mimic works of art,
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
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.
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,
Navigation, that withstood
The mortal fury of the flood,
To which the gods must yield; and I obey,
WHO, then, can strive with strong necessity,
When fear admits no hope of safety, then
Beaumont and Fletcher.
Fatal necessity is never known,
Strong as necessity he starts away,