610

STUDY. STURDY. STYLE.

STUDY.

STUDY is like the heaven's glorious sun,

That will not be deep search'd with saucy looks; Small have continual plodders ever won,

Save base authority from others' books: These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights, That give a name to every fixed star, Have no more profit of their shining nights,

Than those that walk, and wot not that they are. Too much to know, is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name.

If not to some peculiar end assigned
Study's the specious trifling of the mind,
Or is at best a secondary aim,

A chase for sport alone, and not for game.

STURDY.

Shakspere.

Young.

AWED by that house, accustomed to command,
The sturdy kerns in due subjection stand.-Dryden.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Gray.

STYLE.

BE sure, avoid set phrases when you write,
The usual way of speech is more polite.
How have I seen the puzzled lover vex'd,
To read a letter with hard words perplex'd.
A style too coarse, takes from a handsome face,
And makes us wish an uglier in its place.

Others for language all their care express,
And value books, as women men, for dress;
Their praise is still-"The style is excellent,"
The sense they humbly take upon content.

Ovid.

Pope.

SUBMISSION.

SUCCESS.

611

SUBMISSION.

CEASE then, nor order imperfection name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point; this kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, heav'n bestows on thee.
Submit-in this or any other sphere,

Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear.

It grieves me to the soul

To see how man submits to man's control;
How overpower'd and shackled minds are led
In vulgar tracks, and to submission bred.

Pope.

Crabbe.

SUCCESS.

IN tracing human story, we shall find
The cruel more successful than the kind.

Sir W. Davenant.

Had I miscarried, I had been a villain;

For men judge actions always by events:
But when we manage by a just foresight,

Success is prudence, and possession right. Higgons.

What though I am a villain, who so bold
To tell me so? let your poor petty traitors
Feel the vindictive lash and scourge for wrong;
But who shall tax successful villany,
Or call the rising traitor to account?

"Tis not in mortals to command success;

Havard.

But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.

Unhappy they!

And falsely gay!

Who bask for ever in success;

A constant feast

Addison.

Quite palls the taste,

And long enjoyment is distress.

Young.

612

SUFFER.

SUICIDE.

SUFFER-SUFFERANCE.

THE poor beetle that we tread upon,
In corporal suffering feels a pang as great
As when a giant dies.

I will bear it

With all the tender sufferance of a friend,
As calmly as the wounded patient bears
The artist's hand that ministers his cure.

Shakspere.

Otway.

The brave unfortunates are our best acquaintance;
They show us virtue may be much distressed,
And give us their example how to suffer.-Frances.

SUICIDE.

AGAINST self-slaughter

There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand.

Shakspere.

'Tis not courage when the darts of chance
Are thrown against our state, to turn our back
And basely run to death; as if the hand
Of heaven and nature had but nothing else
T' oppose against mishap, but loss of life:
Which is to fly, and not to conquer it.

What more speaks

Greatness of man than valiant patience,

Jonson.

That shrinks not under his fate's strongest stroke?
These Roman deaths, as falling on a sword,

Opening the veins, with poison quenching thirst,
(Which we erroneously do style the deeds
Of the heroic and magnanimous man,)

Was dead-eyed cowardice and white-cheeked fear:
Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under
Fortune's false lottery, desperately ran

To death for dread of death. That soul's most stout,
That bearing all mischance, dares last it out.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

THEN came the jolly summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock coloured green,
That was unlined all, to be more light,
And on his head a garland well beseene
He wore, from which, as he had chaffed been,
The sweat did drop, and in his hand he bore
A bow and shafts, as he in forest green
Had hunted late the libbard or the boar,

And now would bathe his limbs, with labour heated sore.

Spenser.

From bright'ning fields of ether, fair disclos'd,
Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes;
In pride of youth, and felt thro' nature's depth,
He comes, attended by the sultry hours,
And ever-fanning breezes on his way.

Thomson.

The Spring's gay promise melted into thee,
Fair Summer! and thy gentle reign is here;
Thy emerald robes are on each leafy tree;

In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear;
And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reign-
They leap in music 'midst thy bright domain.
Willis G. Clark.
Summer! delicious Summer! thou dost fling
Thy unbought treasures o'er the glorious earth!
Music is in thy step, and in thine eye
A flood of sunshine! on thy brow is wreathed
Garlands that wither not, and in thy breath
Are all the perfumes of Arabia!

Thou wilt not frown, tho' I have pluck'd unseen One little blossom from thy golden hair.-H. G. Bell.

Thou art bearing hence thy roses,

Glad Summer, fare thee well!
Thou art singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell.

Brightly, sweet Summer, brightly,
Thine hours have floated by,

To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs,

To the rangers of the sky.

Mrs. Hemans.

As half in shade and half in sun
This world along its path advances,
May that sweet side the sun's upon
Be all that ever meets thy glances.

Howell, from Horace.

When the crab's fierce constellation
Burns with beams of brightest sun,
Then he that will go out and sow
Shall never reap where he did plough,
But, instead of corn, may rather
(The old world's diet) acorns gather.

The sun makes music as of old
Amid the rival spheres of heaven;
On its predestined circle roll'd

H. Vaughan.

With thunder speed: the angels even Draw strength from gazing on its glance, Though none its meaning fathom may:The world's unwither'd countenance

Is bright as at creation's day.

Goethe, (translated by Shelley.)

Yet once again I greet thee, thou fair sun!
And now I look upon thy golden orb,
And in anticipation feel my soul

Partake thy essence, and inhale thy beams!

To me this earthly strife is as the night

And death the morn from which, as from the grave,

The sun of immortality shall rise.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall,
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea:

Körner.

Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!-
One thing is like thee to mortals given,

The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven.

Mrs. Hemans.