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THE ghosts of traitors from the bridge descend,
With bold fantastic spectres to rejoice.
A horrid spectre rises to my sight,
Close by my side, and plain and palpable,
In all good seeming and close circumstance,
As man meets man.
FORTH riding underneath the castle wall,
A dunghill of dead carcasses he spied,
The dreadful spectacle of that sad house of pride.
Than history can pattern, though devised
And played to take spectators.
In open place produced they me,
To be a public spectacle to all.
AVAUNT! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes,
Which thou dost glare with!
They who have, or who have not, whom their great
Throne and set high! servants
Which are to France the spies and speculations,
Intelligent of our state.
Thenceforth to speculations high and deep
I turned my thoughts, and with capacious mind
Considered all things visible.
AND when she spake,
Sweet words, like dropping honey, she did shed;
And 'twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake
A silver sound that heavenly music seemed to make.
When he speaks,
The air, a chartered libertine, is still,
And mute wonder lurketh in men's ears,
To steal his voice and honied sentences.-Shakspere.
When the fowler blows his whistle,
To ensnare the birds with his mimic cry,
The bird hears, as it were, the song of his companion,
And flies down from the air and enters the net;
So, too, the dervishes, by their human speech, catch men,
That they may call them by that spell to salvation.
Jelaleddin, from the Persian.
Speech is the vestibule of the palace of love;
Speech is the new wine of the garden of love;
There is no work for the intellect like speech;
There is no memorial in the world like speech;
All that is born in the world, whether old or new,
The wise man saith, is born of speech.
Jami, from the Persian.
Oh! speak that again!
Sweet as the syren's tongue those accents fall,
And charm me to my ruin.
Speech is the golden harvest that followeth the flowering of thought;
Yet oftentimes runneth it to husk, and the grains be withered and scanty:
Speech is reason's brother, and a kindly prerogative
That likeneth him to his Maker, who spake and it was done:
Spirit may mingle with spirit, but sense requireth a symbol;
And speech is the body of a thought, without which it were not seen. Martin F. Tupper.
O THAT a mighty man, of such descent,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit.
I can call up spirits from the vasty deep.-
-Why, so can I, or so can any man;
But will they come, when you do call for them?
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. Pope.
Take thou the poet's counsel to thy heart:
Question thy spirit, make its wisdom thine—
Shut out the world, pride, pomp, and every part;
As these retire, we gaze on worlds divine.
Then spiritual loveliness appears—
God's nature glows through every form we see;
For mind's the prophecy of other spheres,
And in itself its own futurity.
Turn to thy soul, Eternity is there;
The key of the Invisible behold:
Spirit thou art-of spirit-worlds the heir-
All other secrets can thy cross unfold.
THE spleen with sudden vapour clouds the brain,
And binds the spirits in its heavy chain;
Howe'er the cause fantastic may appear,
Th' effect is real and the pain sincere.-Blackmore.
The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;
The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For such immeasurable woe appears,
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair
Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.
THE glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist,
Turning, with splendour of his precious eye,
The meagre, cloddy earth, to glittering gold.
The splendour of our rank and state
Are shadows, not substantial things.
To splendour only do we live?
Must pomp alone our thoughts employ?
All, all that pomp and splendour give,
Is dearly bought with love and joy.
IN wrestling nimble, and in running swift;
In shooting steady, and in swimming strong;
Well made to strike, to leap, to throw, to lift,
And all the sports that shepherds are among.
For sports, for pageantry, and plays,
Thou hast thy eves and holidays;
On which the young men and maids meet,
To exercise their dancing feet;
Tripping the comely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crown'd,
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles too, with garlands grac'd;
Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale,
Thy shearing feast, which never fail;
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,
That's tost up after fox i' th' hole;
Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings;
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit;
And no man pays too dear for it.
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd;
The sports of children satisfy the child.-Goldsmith.
So forth issu'd the seasons of the year;
First lusty spring, all dight in leaves of flowers
That freshly budded, and new blossoms did bear,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowers,
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did bear,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stores)
A gilt engraven morion he did wear,
That as some did him love, so others did him fear.
Fain would my muse the flowing treasure sing,
The humble glories of the youthful Spring. Pope.
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting Summer lingering blooms delayed.
Come, gentle spring, ethereal mildness, come,
And from the bosom of yon drooping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.-Thomson.
O Spring! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness,
Wind-winged emblem! brightest, best, and fairest!
Whence comest thou, when, with dark winter's sadness,
The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest?
Sister of joy, thou art the child that wearest
Thy mother's dying smile tender and sweet;
Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet,
Disturbing not the leaves, which are her winding-sheet.
I come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth
By the winds that tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.