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IF wrongfully, Let God revenge; for I may never lift An angry arm against his ministers. Shakspere. Can'st thou not minister to a mind diseased; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain?
Shakspere. This temple to frequent With ministeries due and solemn rites. Milton.
The old grey minsters! how they rear their heads
Amid the green vales of our fertile land,
Telling of bygone years and things that were;-
Those glorious piles, that seem to mock at time,
To God's most holy service dedicate,
Enriched with sculptures rare, and effigies,
That with clasped hands seem ever mutely praying-
Dumb intercessors for us sinful men;
And with their solemn bells, that send afar
The tidings of great joy, and bid us leave
The turmoil and the strife of busy life,
And worship, as we should, the living God.
Here, as to shame the temples deck'd
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor for a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the bigh vault an answer draws,
That Nature's voice might seem to say
"Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard--but witness mine!" Scott.
Hark how the minstreles gin to shriek aloud
Their merry music that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd,
That well agree withouten breach or jar!
I to the vulgar am become a jest,
Esteemed as a minstrel at a feast. Sandys.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek and tresses grey
Seemed to have known a better day:
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sang of border chivalry;
For well-a day their date was filed,
His tuneful brethren all were dead,
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them and at rest.
INCESSANT minutes, whilst you move, you tell
The time that tells our life, which though it run
Never so fast or far, your new-begun
Short steps shall overtake; for though life well
May 'scape his own account, it shall not yours.
You are death's auditors, that both decide And sum whate'er that life inspir'd endures,
Past a beginning; and through you we bide
The doom of fate, whose unrecall, decree
You date, bring, execute; making what's new,
Ill; and good, old; for as we die in you,
You die in time, time in eternity.
Lord Herbert, to his Watch.
The speed of gods Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged.
To hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature,
To show virtue her feature, scorn her own image,
And the very age and body of the time
His form and pressure.
Shakspere. That Power which gave me eyes the world to view,
To view myself infused an inward light,
Whereby my soul, as by a mirror true,
Of her own form may take a perfect sight.
Late as I ranged the crystal wilds of air
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star,
I saw, alas! some dread event impend. Pope.
I Am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.
Alas, poor dean! his only scope
Was to be held a misanthrope;.
This into general odium drew him. Sicift.
Misanthropy, with visage sour, that sat
And looked askance upon the ways of men,
As might a wounded bear from out his den; Longing to eat those he was looking at. Anon.
O mischief! thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
He that may hinder mischief,
And yet permits it, is an accessary.
Mischief that may be help’d, is hard to knoir;
And danger going on still multiplies:
Where harm hath many wings, care arms too late.
MISER. But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods o'er his gold, and griping still at more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor. Dryden.
”T is strange the miser should his care employ
To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy.
The miser lives alone, abhorred by all
Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scaped,
But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts
That live about him; never has commerce
With any, but to ruin them.
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Who've pawn'd their sordid souls away?
Let bravoes, then, whose blood is spilt,
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.
The kindly throbs that other men control,
Ne'er melt the iron of the miser's soul;
Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends,
An incarnation of fat dividends.
Thou, who to Pindas tak’st thy way,
Where hangs my harp upon the cypress tree,
Salute it in my name, and say,
I am bow'd down by years and misery. Tasso.
I pray thee, deal with men in misery,
Like one who may himself be miserable.
To tell thy mis’ries will no comfort breed;
Men help thee most, that think thou hast no need;
But if the world once thy misfortunes know,
Thou soon shalt lose a friend and find a foe.
In struggling with misfortune lies the proof
Misfortune does not always wait on vice,
Nor is success the constant guest of virtue.
Havard, Oh! mortals, short of sight, who think the past O'er-blown misfortune still shall prove the last; Alas! misfortunes travel in a train, And oft in life form one perpetual chain; Fear buries fear, and ills on ills attend, Till life and sorrow meet one common end.
On a mission, on a mission,
To declare the coming vision.-E. B. Browning.
The warriors of Messiah, messengers
Of peace, and light, and life; whose eye, unsealed,
Saw up the path of immortality,
Far into bliss, saw men, immortal men,
Wide wandering from the way eclipsed in night, .
Dark, moonless, moral night; living like beasts,
Likė beasts descending to the grave, untaught
Of life to come, unsanctified, unsaved ;
Who strong, though seeming weak; who warlike, though
Unarmed with bow and sword; appearing mad,
Though sounder than the schools alone e'er made
The doctor's head; devote to God and truth.--Pollok.
Great Britain has her sons, both frank and brave,
Who noble triumphs win but wear no glave;
Sons who in heart are firm, in toil are free,
To spread her glorious name from sea to sea!
Nor strife, nor tribute, nor oppressive sway
Degrade their labours, nor obstruct their way!
Their watchword still-Let war and sorrow cease;
Their noblest epithet—The men of peace!
Dr. Wm. Beattie.