FATE. (See DESTINY.)

FATHER-MOTHER-PARENTS.

1. Had doting Priam check'd his son's desire,

2.

Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.

The poor wren,

The most diminutive of birds, will fight,

SHAKSPEARE.

The young ones in her nest, against the owl.

SHAKSPEARE.

3. Fathers their children and themselves abuse,
That wealth, a husband, for their daughters choose.

4. But parents, to their offspring blind,
Consult not parts, nor turn of mind;
But, even in infancy, decree
What this, what th' other son shall be.

5. For if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refin'd and clear,
"Tis that which pious parents shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head.

SHIRLEY.

GAY's Fables.

6. To aid thy mind's development-to watch
The dawn of little joys-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth-to view thee catch.
Knowledge of objects-wonders yet to see!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,

And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,—
This, it should seem, was not reserv'd for me;
Yet such was in my nature.

SCOTT.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

266

FATHER-MOTHER, &c.

7. My mother! at that holy name

Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame,
A feeling, which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not crush!

8. My heart grew softer as I gazed upon

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

That youthful mother, as she sooth'd to rest,
With a low song, her lov'd and cherish'd one,
The bud of promise on her gentle breast;
For 't is a sight that angel ones above

May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss,
When Innocence upon the breast of Love

Is cradled, in a sinful world like this.

MRS. A. B. WELBY.

9. Ere yet her child hath drawn its earliest breath,
A mother's love begins-it grows till death!
Lives before life, with death not dies, but seems
The very substance of immortal dreams.

Is tender, though the man be made of stone.

11. Of sighs that speak a father's woe,

Of pangs that none but mothers know.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

12. Sweet is the image of the brooding dove !—
Holy as heaven a mother's tender love!
The love of many prayers, and many tears,
Which changes not with dim declining years,-
The only love, which, on this teeming earth,
Asks no return for passion's wayward birth.

MRS. NORTON's Dream.

13. There are smiles and tears in the mother s eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies;

Oh, heaven of bliss! when the heart overflows
With the rapture a mother only knows!

HENRY WARE.

FAVOUR.

1. There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

2. O momentary grace of mortal man,

SHAKSPEARE.

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,
Ready with every nod to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

SHAKSPEARE.

3. "T is ever thus when favours are denied ;
All had been granted but the thing we beg:
And still some great unlikely substitute-
Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good-
Is proffer'd, in the room of one small boon.

4. No trifle is so small as what obtains,

JOANNA BAILlie.

Save that which loses favour: 't is a breath
Which hangs upon a smile! A look, a word,
A frown, the air-built tower of fortune shakes,
And down the unsubstantial fabric falls.

HANNAH MORE.

1. Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute.

2. Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art?

Cowper.

Can genius shield the vulnerable heart?
Ah no! where bright imagination reigns,
The fine-wrought spirit feels acuter pains;
Where glow exalted sense and taste refin'd,
There keener anguish rankles in the mind;
There feeling is diffus'd through every part,
Thrills in each nerve, and lives in all the heart;
And those, whose generous souls each tear would keep
From others' eyes, are born themselves to weep.

3. The soul of music slumbers in the shell,

HANNAH MORE.

Till wak'd and kindled by the master's spell,
And feeling hearts-touch them but lightly-pour
A thousand melodies unheard before.

ROGERS' Human Life.

4. Admire exalt-despise-laugh-weep-for here There is much matter for all feeling.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

5. What we can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

6. Striking th' electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

7. There are some feelings time cannot benumb.

8. The keenest pangs the wretched find,

Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemploy'd.

9. The deepest ice that ever froze
Can only o'er the surface close;
The living stream lies quick below,
And flows, and cannot cease to flow.

10. Oh! life is a waste of wearisome hours,

BYRON'S Giaour.

BYRON'S Parisina.

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

11. Dried hastily the teardrop from her cheek, And signified the vow she could not speak.

12. I felt to madness! but my full heart gave No utterance to the ineffable within.

MOORE.

CAMPBELL.

Words were too weak: they were unknown; but still
The feeling was most poignant.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

FESTIVITY.-(See DRINKING.)