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HAIL Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
On other days the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread, lonely-the ground

Both seat and board-screen'd from the winter's cold And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosom'd in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves.

Grahame.

Poor sons of toil! oh, grudge them not the breeze
That plays with sabbath flowers; the clouds that play
With sabbath winds; the hum of sabbath bees;
The sabbath walk; the sky-lark's sabbath_lay;
The silent sunshine of the sabbath-day.-Leigh Hunt.
Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path,
His progress mark, and keep his rest in view.
In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days,
Short foretastes of the long-long spring to come.
To every new-born soul each hallowed morn
Seems like the first, when everything was new.
Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven;
His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies,
And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold.
Charles Wilcox.
Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;

The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days stern labour shuts the poor
From nature's careless banquet-hall;
The seventh, an Angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!

Each sabbath is a little pause
Between the world and me,
My selfish troubles it suspends,
It makes my soul more free.
Each sabbath then, I turn aside

O world! from thy pursuits;
'Tis sacred to the eternal cause,
And sacred be its fruits.

Bulwer.

Anon.

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BUT when men think they most in safety stand,
The greatest peril often is at hand.

After distress at sea, the dangers o'er,
Safety and welcomes better taste on shore.
Happy were men, if they but understood
There is no safety but in doing good.

Drayton.

Ford.

Fountain.

SAILOR.

HARK to the sailors' shouts the rocks rebound,
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound!
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas,
And what a heart-delight they feel at last,
So many toils so many dangers past,
To view the port descried, he only knows
Who in the stormy deep for many a day
Hath tost, aweary of the ocean way,

And watched all anxious every wind that blows.

I love the sailor;-his eventful life-

Southey.

His generous spirit-his contempt of danger-
His firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife;—
And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger,
God grant he make that port, when life is o'er,
Where storms are hush'd, and billows break no more!
Walter Colton.

Who was the first sailor? tell me who can;
Old father Neptune? no, you are wrong.

There was another ere Neptune began;
Who was he? tell me! Tightly and strong
Over the waters he went, he went,

Over the waters he went.

Ha! 't is nought but the poor little nautilus-
Sailing away in his ancient shell;
He has no need of a compass like us,
Foul or fair weather he manages well!
Over the water he goes, he goes,
Over the water he goes!

Mary Howitt.

SAINT. SATIETY.

SAINT.

THEN thus I cloath my naked villainy

With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ,
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

My trade is a fine easy gainful cheat,
How easy 'tis saintship to counterfeit,
And pleasing fables to invent and spread,

557

Shakspere.

And fools ne'er find the cheat till they are dead.

So unaffected, so composed a mind;

Crown.

So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so resign'd;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried,
The saint sustained it, but the woman died. Pope.

Of all prides since Lucifer's attaint,
The proudest swells a self-elected saint.

Thos. Hood.

SATIETY.

THEY satiate, and soon fill,

Though pleasant; but thy words with grace divine

Imbued, brings to their sweetness no satiety.

The ear is cloy'd

Unto satiety with honied strains,

That daily from the fount of Helicon

Milton.

Flow murmuring.

Herbert.

The joy unequalled, if its end it gain,
Without satiety, though e'er so blest.

Pope.

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;
Nor deem'd, before his little day was done,
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befel:
He felt the fulness of satiety.

Byron.

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THE labouring bee, when his sharp sting is gone,
Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone;
And such is satire, when you take away

That rage in which his noble vigour lay.

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How can he show his manhood, if you bind him,
To box, like boys, with one hand tied behind him?
Dryden.

Instructive satire! true to virtue's cause!
Thou shining supplement of public laws!

If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man;
'Tis dull to be as witty as you can.
Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high;
Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart,
Good-breeding sends the satire to the heart.

Young.

At princes let but satire lift his gun,
The more their feathers fly, the more the fun!
E'en the whole world, blockheads and men of letters,
Enjoy a cannonade upon their betters.-Dr. Wolcot.

On me when dunces are satiric,
I take it for a panegyric;
Hated by fools, and fools to hate,
Be that my motto and my fate.

Swift.

Though folly, rob'd in purple, shines,
Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines,
Yet shall they tremble and turn pale
When satire wields her mighty flail.-Churchill.

The man whose hardy spirit shall engage
To lash the vices of a guilty age,

At his first setting forward ought to know
That ev'ry rogue he meets must be his foe;
That the rude breath of satire will provoke
Many who feel, and more who fear the stroke.

Churchill.

SATISFACTION. SAVING. SCANDAL.

SATISFACTION.

BE satisfied, and pleased with what thou art,
Act cheerfully and well the allotted part;

559

Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past,
And neither fear, nor wish, the approaches of the last.

Of every nation each illustrious name,
Such toys as these have cheated into fame;
Exchanging solid quiet to obtain

The windy satisfaction of the brain.

Martial.

Dryden, from Juvenal.

Die he or justice must; unless for him
Some other able, and as willing, pay

The rigid satisfaction, death for death. Milton.

SAVING.

THE circling streams, once thought but pools of blood, From dark oblivion Harvey's name shall save.

A wondrous ark

To save himself and household, from amidst
A world devote to universal wreck.

Will no superior genius snatch the quill,

Dryden.

Milton.

And save me on the brink from writing ill.-Young.

SCANDAL.

THERE is a lust in man no charm can tame,
Of loudly publishing his neighbour's shame;--
On eagles' wings immortal scandals fly,
While virtuous actions are but born and die.

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints,
With all the high mendacity of hints,

Harvey.

While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,

A thread of candour with a web of wiles.

Byron.

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