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SECRECY. SECURITY. SEDUCTION.
A SECRET in his mouth
Is like a wild bird put into a cage,
When two know it, how can it be a secret?
As you may see a mighty promontory,
When most they should be propp'd, are most forsaken, And men will rather thrust unto the storms
Of better grounded states, than take a shelter
HE fell, as doth the tempter ever fall,
J. R. Lowell.
WHAT We hear
With weaker passion will affect the heart,
Francis, from Horace.
O, what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!
Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother;
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber,
Even for him it exists! it moves and stirs in its prison! Lives with a separate life: and "is it a spirit?" he
Sure it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language. Coleridge.
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
All live by seeming.
The beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier
Who will believe? not I, for in deceiving
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream; I cannot spare the luxury of believing
That all things beautiful are what they seem.
If we had nought but sense, each living wight, Which we call brute, would be more sharp than we. As having sense's apprehensive might
In a more clear and excellent degree.
And yet good sense doth purify the brain,
To make men's spirits apt for thoughts divine.
Something there is more needful than expense,
How mind will act with body glorified
The senses degradations, otherwise
Than as fine steps, whereby the queenly soul
Of her inheritance; and re-ascends
OUR sensibilities are so acute,
The fear of being silent makes us mute.
Sensibility, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,
WOULD you taste the tranquil scene?
And the repress'd convulsion of the high
Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead; And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled! Moore.
Reflected on the lake, I love
To see the stars of evening glow;
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er,
THOUGH sprightly, gentle, though polite, sincere.
There was a brightening paleness in his face,
SERVANTS. SERVICE. SERVILE.
To the beggar, by gradations, all are servants;
Expect not more from servants than is just;
HAD I but served my God with half the zeal
As in virtuous actions,
Small service is true service while it lasts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.
YET as winds sing through a hollow tree,
(That will not wind with every crooked way, Trod by the servile world,) shall reel and fall Before the frantic puffs of blind-born chance.