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I HAVE seen tempests, when the scolding winds
Have riv'd the knotty oaks; and I have seen
The ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam,
To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds;
But never till to-night, never till now,
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.


And tempests in contention roar,

From land to sea, from sea to land;
And raging, weave a chain of power,
Which girds the earth as with a band.
A flashing desolation there,

Flames before the thunder's way;
But thy servants, Lord! revere
The gentle changes of thy day.
The angels draw strength from Thy glance,
Though no one comprehend Thee may;
The world's unwither'd countenance,

Is bright as at creation's day.

Shelley, from Goethe.

The sky is changed! and such a change! oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
And this is in the night:-Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, like a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing on the earth!
And now again 't is black, and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.


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MOST sacrilegious murder that broke open
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building.

Mark her majestic fabric! she's a temple
Sacred by birth, and built by hands divine;
Her soul's the deity that lodges there;
Nor is the pile unworthy of the god.



WHAT war so cruel, and what siege so sore,
As that which strong temptation doth apply
Against the fort of reason evermore,
To bring the soul into captivity?

Stand fast! to stand or fall,

Free in thine own arbitrament it stands,
Perfect within, no outward aid require;
And all temptation to transgress repel.


And while in peace abiding
Within a shelter'd home,
We feel as sin and evil


What! do I love her,
That I desire to speak to her again?
And feast upon her eyes? what is 't I dream on?
O cunning enemy, that to catch a saint,
With saints dost bait thy hook! most dangerous
Is that temptation that doth goad us on
To sin, in loving virtue.



But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.


Could never, never come;
But let the strong temptation rise,
As whirlwinds sweep the sea-
We find no strength to 'scape the wreck,
Save, pitying God, in Thee!


Mrs. Hale




WEEP no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man.

Well we know your tenderness of heart,
Your gentle, kind, affectionate remorse
Unto your kindred.



I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 't was a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

We expect your next Should be no comment, but a text, To tell how modern breasts are vext.


IN religion

What damned error, but some sober brow
Will bless it, and approve it with a text.

For this to th' infinitely good we owe
Immortal thanks.





How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks.

Weigh the danger with the doubtful bliss,
And thank yourself, if aught should fall amiss.







Of this world's theatre, in which we stay,
My love, like the spectator, idle sits,
Beholding me that all the pageants play,

Disguising diversely my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy, when glad occasion sits,
And mask in mirth, like to a comedy;
Soon after, when my joy to sorrow flits,
I wail and make my woes a tragedy.

This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play.

True christianity depends on fact,
Religion is not theory but act.




My good grave Sir of Theory, whose wit,
Grasping at shadows, ne'er caught substance yet,
'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine,
On vain refinements vainly to refine,
To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,
To boast of apathy when out of pain,
And in each sentence, worthy of the schools,
Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules
Most fit for practice.





I'LL example you with thievery : The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief, And her pale face she snatches from the sun; The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears; the earth's a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen From general excrement; each thing's a thief.


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THOU-thou hast metamorphos'd me;
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
War with good counsel, set the world at nought,
Made me with musing weak, heart-sick with thought.


If I could think how these my thoughts to leave;

Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel Sense would Reason's law receive,

And Reason foiled would not in vain contend; Then might I think what thoughts were best to think, Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink.

Sir P. Sidney.

Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights,
As beauty doth in self-beholding eye;
Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights,

A brief wherein all miracles summ'd lie;
Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store,
Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more.


Thoughts! what are they?

They are my constant friends;

Who when harsh fate its dull brow bends,
Uncloud me with a smiling ray,
And in the depth of midnight force a day.


'Tis not high power that makes a place divine,
Nor that the men from gods derive their line;
But sacred thoughts in holy bosoms stored,
Make people noble and the place adored.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

There's not a day but, to the man of thought,
Betrays some secret that throws new reproach
On life, and makes him sick of seeing more.

'Tis a base

Abandonment of reason to resign
Our right of thought.



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