The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.Essay on Man, Epistle I. A. POPE.
Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!…Delicious is your shelter to the soul,As to the hunted hart the sallying spring,Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sidesLaves, as he floats along the herbaged brink.The Seasons: Autumn. J. THOMSON.
A poor sequestered stag,That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,Did come to languish;…… and the big round tearsCoursed one another down his innocent noseIn piteous chase.As You Like It, Act ii. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Cruel as Death, and hungry as the Grave!Burning for blood! bony, and gaunt, and grim!Assembling wolves in raging troops descend;And, pouring o'er the country, bear along,Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snows.All is their prize.The Seasons: Winter. J. THOMSON.
Infinite riches in a little room.The Jew of Malta, Act i. C. MARLOWE.
Thin, airy shoals of visionary ghosts.Odyssey. HOMER.Trans. ofPOPE.
My people too were scared with eerie sounds,A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls,A noise of falling weights that never fell,Weird whispers, bells that rang without a hand,Door-handles turned when none was at the door,And bolted doors that opened of themselves;And one betwixt the dark and light had seenHer, bending by the cradle of her babe.The Ring. A. TENNYSON.
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow,And Scipio's ghost walks unavenged amongst us!Cato, Act ii. Sc. 1. J. ADDISON.
Now it is the time of night,That the graves, all gaping wide,Every one lets forth his sprite,In the church-way paths to glide.Midsummer Night's Dream, Act v. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger;At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,Troop home to churchyards.Midsummer Night's Dream, iii, 2. SHAKESPEARE.
Such was Zuleika! such around her shoneThe nameless charms unmarked by her alone;The light of love, the purity of grace,The mind, the music breathing from her face,The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,And oh! that eye was in itself a Soul.Bride of Abydos, Canto I. LORD BYRON.
There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple;If the ill spirit have so fair a house,Good things will strive to dwell with 't.The Tempest, Act i. Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
Exceeding fair she was not; and yet fairIn that she never studied to be fairerThan Nature made her; beauty cost her nothing,Her virtues were so rare.All Fools, Act i. Sc. 1. G. CHAPMAN.
Her glossy hair was clustered o'er a browBright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;Her eyebrow's shape was like the aërial bow,Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,As if her veins ran lightning.Don Juan, Canto I. LORD BYRON.
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,The observed of all observers!Hamlet, ActiiiSc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain,A mere anatomy, a mountebank,A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller,A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch,A living-dead man.Comedy of Errors, Act v. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Falstaff sweats to death,And lards the lean earth as he walks along;Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.K. Henry IV., Pt. I. Act ii. Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look;He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.Julius Cæsar, Act i. Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
Seemed washing his hands with invisible soapIn imperceptible water.Miss Kilmansegg. T. HOOD.
Her pretty feetLike snailes did creepA little out, and then,As if they played at bo-peep,Did soon draw in agen.Upon her Feet. R. HERRICK.
Who the silent man can prize,If a fool he be or wise?Yet, though lonely seem the wood,Therein may lurk the beast of blood;Often bashful looks concealTongue of fire and heart of steel;And deem not thou in forest gray,Every dappled skin thy prey,Lest thou rouse, with luckless spear,The tiger for the fallow-deer!The Gulistan. BISHOP HEBER.
HORATIO. I saw him once: he was a goodly king.HAMLET. He was a man, take him for all in all,I shall not look upon his like again.Hamlet, Acti.Sc. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
On his bold visage middle ageHad slightly pressed his signet sage,Yet had not quenched the open truth,And fiery vehemence of youth;Forward and frolic glee was there,The will to do, the soul to dare,The sparkling glance, soon blown to fireOf hasty love or headlong ire.The Lady of the Lake, Canto I. SIR W. SCOTT.
Mislike me not for my complexion,The shadowed livery of the burnished sun,To whom I am a neighbor, and near bred.Bring me the fairest creature northward born,Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,And let us make incision for your love,To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.Merchant of Venice, Actii.Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Incensed with indignation Satan stoodUnterrified, and like a comet burned,That fires the length of Ophiucus hugeIn th' arctic sky, and from his horrid hairShakes pestilence and war.Paradise Lost, Bk. II. MILTON.
Look here, upon this picture, and on this;The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.See, what a grace was seated on this brow:Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;A station like the herald Mercury,New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;A combination, and a form, indeed,Where every god did seem to set his seal,To give the world assurance of a man.Hamlet, Actiii.Sc. 4. SHAKESPEARE.
Ay, every inch a king.King Lear, Activ. Sc. 6. SHAKESPEARE.
When we mean to build,We first survey the plot, then draw the model;And when we see the figure of the house,Then must we rate the cost of the erection.Henry IV., Pt. II. Acti. Sc. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
The hasty multitudeAdmiring entered, and the work some praise,And some the architect: his hand was knownIn heaven by many a towered structure high,Where sceptred angels held their residence,And sat as princes.Paradise Lost, Bk. I. MILTON.
Old houses mended,Cost little less than new, before they're ended.Prologue to the Double Gallant. . C. GIBBER.
The architectBuilt his great heart into these sculptured stones,And with him toiled his children, and their livesWere builded, with his own, into the walls,As offerings unto God.The Golden Legend, Pt. III. In the Cathedral. H.W. LONGFELLOW.
He'd undertake to prove, by forceOf argument, a man's no horse.He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,And that a Lord may be an owl,A calf an Alderman, a goose a Justice,And rooks, Committee-men or Trustees.Hudibras, Pt. I. Canto I. S. BUTLER.
Reproachful speech from either sideThe want of argument supplied:They rail, reviled; as often endsThe contests of disputing friends.Fables: Sexton and Earth Worm. J. GAY.
Be calm in arguing; for fierceness makesError a fault, and truth discourtesy.The Temple: The Church Porch. C. HERBERT.
In argumentSimiles are like songs in love;They must describe; they nothing prove.Alma, Canto III. M. PRIOR.
One single positive weighs more,You know, than negatives a score.Epistle to Fleetwood Shepherd. M. PRIOR.
Who shall decide, when doctors disagree,And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?Moral Essays, Epistle III. A. POPE.
How vain are all hereditary honors,Those poor possessions from another's deeds.Parricide. J. SHIRLEY.
He lives to build, not boast, a generous race;No tenth transmitter of a foolish face.The Bastard. R. SAVAGE.
Let wealth and commerce, laws and learning die,But leave us still our old nobility.England's Trust, Pt. III. LORD J. MANNERS.
Whoe'er amidst the sonsOf reason, valor, liberty, and virtue,Displays distinguished merit, is a nobleOf Nature's own creating.Coriolanus, Actiii.Sc. 3. J. THOMSON.
Fond man! though all the heroes of your lineBedeck your halls, and round your galleries shineIn proud display; yet take this truth from me—Virtue alone is true nobility!Satire VIII. JUVENAL.Trans. ofGIFFORD.
Boast not the titles of your ancestors, brave youth!They're their possessions, none of yours.Catiline. B. JONSON.
Nobler is a limited commandGiven by the love of all your native land,Than a successive title, long and dark,Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's ark.Absalom and Achitophel, I. J. DRYDEN.
As though there were a tie,And obligation to posterity!We get them, bear them, breed and nurse.What has posterity done for us,That we, lest they their rights should lose,Should trust our necks to gripe of noose?McFingal, Canto IIJ. TRUMBULL.
They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.Love of Fame, Satire I. DR. E. YOUNG.
Few sons attain the praise of their great sires, and mosttheir sires disgrace.Odyssey, Bk. II. HOMER.Trans. ofPOPE.
He stands for fame on his forefather's feet,By heraldry, proved valiant or discreet ILove of Fame, Satire I. DR. E. YOUNG.
Great families of yesterday we show,And lords whose parents were the Lord knows who.The True-Born Englishman, Pt. I. D. DEFOE.
For Art is Nature made by ManTo Man the interpreter of God.The Artist. LORD LYTTON (Owen Meredith).
In the elder days of Art.Builders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part;For the gods see everywhere.The Builders. H.W. LONGFELLOW.
It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize,And to be swift is less than to be wise.'Tis more by art, than force of numerous strokes.Iliad, Bk. XXIII. HOMER.Trans. of POPE.
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;Still born to improve us in every part,His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.Retaliation (Sir Joshua Reynolds). O. GOLDSMITH.
Around the mighty master cameThe marvels which his pencil wrought,Those miracles of power whose fameIs wide as human thought.Raphael. J.G. WHITTIER.
Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bandsThat tie me down where wretched mortals sigh—To join blest spirits in celestial lands!To Laura in Death. PETRARCH.
Happy the heart that keeps its twilight hour,And, in the depths of heavenly peace reclined,Loves to commune with thoughts of tender power,—Thoughts that ascend, like angels beautiful,A shining Jacob's ladder of the mind!Sonnet IX. P.H. HAYNE.
The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow.To ——: One word is too often profaned. P.B. SHELLEY.
I held it truth, with him who singsTo one clear harp in divers tones,That men may rise on stepping-stonesOf their dead selves to higher things.In Memoriam, I. A. TENNYSON.
The ruleOf the many is not well. One must be chiefIn war and one the king.Iliad, Bk. II. HOMER.Trans. ofBRYANT.
Authority intoxicates,And makes mere sots of magistrates;The fumes of it invade the brain,And make men giddy, proud, and vain.Miscellaneous Thoughts. S. BUTLER.
Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar,And the creature run from the cur: There,There, thou might'st behold the great image of authority;A dog's obeyed in office.King Lear, Activ.Sc. 6. SHAKESPEARE.
O, what authority and show of truthCan cunning sin cover itself withal!Much Ado about Nothing, Activ.Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,Falling, like dew, upon a thought, producesThat which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.Don Juan, Canto III. LORD BYRON.
Habits of close attention, thinking heads,Become more rare as dissipation spreads,Till authors hear at length one general cryTickle and entertain us, or we die!Retirement. W. COWPER.
The unhappy man, who once has trailed a pen,Lives not to please himself, but other men;Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood,Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.Prologue to Lee's Cæsar Borgia. J. DRYDEN.
Lest men suspect your tale untrueKeep probability in view.The traveller leaping o'er those bounds,The credit of his book confounds.The Painter who pleased Nobody and Everybody. J. GAY.
Immodest words admit of no defence.For want of decency is want of sense.
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But foul descriptions are offensive still,Either for being like or being ill.Essay on Translated Verse. EARL OF BOSCOMMON.
Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued I said,Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.The Dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt,All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,They rave, recite, and madden round the land.Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot: Prologue to the Satires. A. POPE.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknownDipped me in ink,—my parents', or my own!Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot: Prologue to the Satires. A. POPE.
And so I pennedIt down, until at last it came to be.For length and breadth, the highness which you see.Pilgrim's Progress: Apology for his Book. J. BUNYAN.
None but an author knows an author's cares,Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears.The Progress of Error. W. COWPER.
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,If folly grow romantic. I must paint it.Moral Essays, Epistle II. A. POPE.
"You write with ease, to show your breeding,But easy writing's curst hard reading."Olio's Protest. R.B. SHERIDAN.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,As those move easiest who have learned to dance.'T is not enough no harshness gives offence;The sound must seem an echo to the sense.Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;But when loud surges lash the sounding shore.The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throwThe line too labors, and the words move slow;Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
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Then, at the last and only couplet fraughtWith some unmeaning thing they call a thought,A needless Alexandrine ends the song.That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.Essay on Criticism, Part II. A. POPE.
Abstruse and mystic thought you must expressWith painful care, but seeming easiness;For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.Essay on Translated Verse. W. DILLON.
It may be glorious to writeThoughts that shall glad the two or threeHigh souls, like those far stars that come in sightOnce in a century.Incident in a Railroad Car. J.R. LOWELL.
E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,The last and greatest art—the art to blot.Horace, Bk. II. Epistle I. A. POPE.
Whatever hath been written shall remain,Nor be erased nor written o'er again;The unwritten only still belongs to thee:Take heed, and ponder well, what that shall be.Morituri Salutamus. H.W. LONGFELLOW.
A sweet, new blossom of Humanity,Fresh fallen from God's own home to flower on earth.Wooed and Won. G. MASSEY.
The hair she means to have is gold,Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks old,Plump are her fists and pinky.She fluttered down in lucky hourFrom some blue deep in yon sky bower—I call her "Little Dinky."Little Dinky. F. LOCKER-LAMPSON.
As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven.Course of Time, Bk. V. R. POLLOK.
God mark thee to his grace!Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed:An I might live to see thee married once,I have my wish.Romeo and Juliet, Acti.So. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giving:Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting!The Gypsy's Malison. C. LAMB.
Now the storm begins to lower,(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,)Iron sleet of arrowy showerHurtles in the darkened air.
Glittering lances are the loom,Where the dusky warp we strain,Weaving many a soldier's doom,Orkney's woe, and Randoer's bane.The Fatal Sisters. T. GRAY.
Wheel the wild dance,While lightnings glance,And thunders rattle loud;And call the braveTo bloody grave,To sleep without a shroud.The Dance of Death. SIR W. SCOTT.
He made me madTo see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,And that it was great pity, so it was,That villanous saltpetre should be diggedOut of the bowels of the harmless earth,Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed.K. Henry IV., Pt. I. Act i. Sc.3SHAKESPEARE.
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery.Their various arms that glitter in the air!What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!All join the chase, but few the triumph share;The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,And havoc scarce for joy can number their array.Childe Harold, Canto I. LORD BYRON.
From the glittering staff unfurledTh' imperial ensign, which, full high advanced,Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind,With gems and golden lustre rich imblazed,Seraphic arms and trophies; all the whileSonorous metal blowing martial sounds:At which the universal host upsentA shout that tore hell's concave, and beyondFrighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.Paradise Lost, Bk. I. MILTON.
When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war.Alexander the Great, Act iv. Sc. 2. N. LEE.
That voice … heard so oftIn worst extremes, and on the perilous edgeOf battle when it raged.Paradise Lost, Bk. 1. MILTON.
Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!King Richard III., Act v. Sc. 8. SHAKESPEARE.
We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns,And pass them current too. God's me, my horse!King Henry IV., Pt. I. Act ii. Sc. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
Never be it saidThat Fate itself could awe the soul of Richard.Hence, babbling dreams; you threaten here in vain;Conscience, avaunt, Richard's himself again!Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds. To horse! away!My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray.Shakespeare's Richard III. (Altered), Act. v. Sc. 3. C. GIBBER.
Is she not passing fair?Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act iv. Sc. 4. SHAKESPEARE.
And she is fair, and fairer than that word.Merchant of Venice, Act i. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.As You Like It, Act i. Sc. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit,The power of beauty I remember yet.Cymon and Iphigenia. J. DRYDEN.
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of nightLike a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear.Romeo and Juliet, Act i. Sc. 5. SHAKESPEARE.
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns.And sweet as English air could make her, she.The Princess. A. TENNYSON.
Thou who hastThe fatal gift of beauty.Childe Harold, Canto IV. LORD BYRON.
Yet I'll not shed her blood;Nor soar that whiter skin of hers than snow,And smooth as monumental alabaster.Othello, Act v. Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
No longer shall thy bodice, aptly laced.From thy full bosom to thy slender waist,That air and harmony of shape express,Fine by degrees, and beautifully less.Henry and Emma. M. PRIOR.
The beautiful are never desolate;But some one always loves them—God or man.If man abandons, God himself takes them.Festus: Sc. Water and Wood. P.J. BAILEY.
There's nothing that allays an angry mindSo soon as a sweet beauty.The Elder Brother, Act iii. Sc. 5. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
The beautiful seems rightBy force of beauty, and the feeble wrongBecause of weakness.Aurora Leigh. E.B. BROWNING.
How near to good is what is fair,Which we no sooner see,But with the lines and outward airOur senses taken be.We wish to see it still, and proveWhat ways we may deserve;We court, we praise, we more than love,We are not grieved to serve.Love Freed from Ignorance and Folly. B. JONSON.
There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:If the ill spirit have so fair a house,Good things will strive to dwell with't.Tempest, Act i. Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall.And most divinely fair.A Dream of Fair Women. A. TENNYSON.
Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be hoarded.But must be current, and the good thereofConsists in mutual and partaken bliss.Unsavory in th' enjoyment of itself:If you let slip time, like a neglected rose,It withers on the stalk with languished head.Comus. MILTON.
Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self.The Seasons: Autumn. J. THOMSON.
In beauty, faults conspicuous grow;The smallest speck is seen on snow.Fables: Peacock, Turkey, and Goose. J. GAY.
The maid who modestly concealsHer beauties, while she hides, reveals:Gives but a glimpse, and fancy drawsWhate'er the Grecian Venus was.The Spider and the Bee. E. MOORE.
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;A brittle glass that 's broken presently;A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.The Passionate Pilgrim. SHAKESPEARE.
Tuned be its metal mouth aloneTo things eternal and sublime.And as the swift-winged hours speed onMay it record the flight of time!Song of the Bell. F. SCHILLER.Trans. E.A. BOWRING.
The bells themselves are the best of preachers,Their brazen lips are learnèd teachers,From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air,Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw,Shriller than trumpets under the Law,Now a sermon and now a prayer.Christus: The Golden Legend, Pt. III.H.W. LONGFELLOW.
And the Sabbath bell,That over wood and wild and mountain dellWanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholyWith sounds most musical, most melancholy.Human Life. S. ROGERS.
Sweet Sunday bells! your measured soundEnhances the repose profoundOf all these golden fields around,And range of mountain, sunshine-drowned.Sunday Bells. W. ALLINGHAM.
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.Hamlet, Actiii.Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Seize the loud, vociferous bells, andClashing, clanging to the pavementHurl them from their windy tower!Christus: The Golden Legend. Prologue.H.W. LONGFELLOW.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome newsHath but a losing office, and his tongueSounds ever after as a sullen bell,Remembered tolling a departing friend.K. Henry IV., Pt. II. Acti.Sc. 1.SHAKESPEARE.
My Book and HeartMust never part.New England Primer.
Within that awful volume liesThe mystery of mysteries!
* * * * *
And better had they ne'er been born,Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.The Monastery. SIR W. SCOTT.
God, in the gospel of his Son,Makes his eternal counsels known;'Tis here his richest mercy shines,And truth is drawn in fairest lines.The Glory of the Scriptures. B. BEDDOME.
Holy Bible, book divine,Precious treasure, thou art mine;Mine to tell me whence I came,Mine to teach me what I am.
Mine to chide me when I rove,Mine to show a Saviour's love;Mine art thou to guide my feet,Mine to judge, condemn, acquit.Holy Bible, Book Divine. J. BURTON.
The heavens declare thy glory, Lord;In every star thy wisdom shines;But when our eyes behold thy word,We read thy name in fairer lines.God's Word and Works. DR. I. WATTS.
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true.Truth. W. COWPER.
A glory gilds the sacred page,Majestic like the sun,It gives a light to every age,It gives, but borrows none.Olney Hymns. W. COWPER.
Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse;This book starres lights to eternal blisse.The Church: The Holy Scriptures, Pt. II.G. HERBERT.
Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taughtThe dialect they speak, where melodiesAlone are the interpreters of thought?Whose household words are songs in many keys,Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!Tales of a Wayside Inn: The Poet's Tale.H.W. LONGFELLOW.
I shall not ask Jean Jaques RousseauIf birds confabulate or no.'T is clear that they were always ableTo hold discourse—at least in fable.Pairing Time Anticipated. W. COWPER.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove:Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furzePoured out profusely, silent. Joined to these,Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shadeOf new-sprung leaves, their modulations mixMellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathesA melancholy murmur through the whole.The Seasons: Spring. J. THOMSON.
Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of May.Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring?Whither away?Flight of Birds. E.C. STEDMAN.
The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate,Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight.Spring. O.W. HOLMES.
One day in the bluest of summer weather,Sketching under a whispering oak,I heard five bobolinks laughing together,Over some ornithological joke.Bird Language. C.P. CRANCH.
Sing away, ay, sing away,Merry little bird.Always gayest of the gay,Though a woodland roundelayYou ne'er sung nor heard;Though your life from youth to agePasses in a narrow cage.The Canary in his Cage. D.M. MULOCK CRAIK.
The cook, that is the trumpet to the morn.Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throatA wake the god of day.Hamlet. Acti.Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,Thy home is high in heaven,Where wide the storms their banners fling.And the tempest clouds are driven.To the Eagle. J.G. PERCIVAL.
Where, the hawk,High in the beetling cliff, his aery builds.The Seasons: Spring. J. THOMSON.
And the, humming-bird that hungLike a jewel up amongThe tilted honeysuckle hornsThey mesmerized and swungIn the palpitating air,Drowsed with odors strange and rare,And, with whispered laughter, slipped awayAnd left him hanging there.The South Wind and the Sun. J.W. RILEY.
"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought!In nature there is nothing melancholy.The Nightingale. S.T. COLERIDGE.
Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Evangeline, Pt. II. H.W. LONGFELLOW.
Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed.The Village Curate. J. HURDIS.
The merry lark he soars on high,No worldly thought o'ertakes him.He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,And the daylight that awakes him.Song. H. COLERIDGE.
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?O, 'tis the ravished nightingale—Jug, jug, jug, jug—tereu—she cries,And still her woes at midnight rise.Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?None but the lark so shrill and clear,Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,The morn not waking till she sings.Hark, hark! but what a pretty note,Poor Robin-redbreast tunes his throat;Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing"Cuckoo!" to welcome in the spring.Alexander and Campaspe, Act v. Sc. 1. JOHN LYLY.
O nightingale, that on yon bloomy sprayWarblest at eve, when all the woods are still;Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fillWhile the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,
* * * * *
Portend success in love.To the Nightingale. MILTON.
O honey-throated warbler of the grove!That in the glooming woodland art so proudOf answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud,Thou dost not own a note we do not love.To the Nightingale. C.T. TURNER.
Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pourThe mazy-running soul of melodyInto my varied verse.The Seasons: Spring. J. THOMSON.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the larkWhen neither is attended; and I thinkThe nightingale, if she should sing by day,When every goose is cackling, would be thoughtNo better a musician than the wren.How many things by season seasoned areTo their right praise and true perfection.Merchant of Venice, Act v. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.Macbeth, Actii.Sc. 4. SHAKESPEARE.
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o'er shady groves they hover,And with leaves and flowers do coverThe friendless bodies of unburied men.The White Devil, Actv.Sc. 2. J. WEBSTER.
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,And humbler growths as moved with one desirePut on, to welcome spring, their best attire,Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gayWith his red stalks upon this sunny day!Poor Robin. W. WORDSWORTH.
The swallow twitters about the eaves;Blithely she sings, and sweet and clear;Around her climb the woodbine leavesIn a golden atmosphere.The SwallowC. THAXTER.
The stately-sailing swanGives out his snowy plumage to the gale;And, arching proud his neck, with oary feetRears forward fierce, and guards his osier isle,Protective of his young.The Seasons: Spring. J. THOMSON.
Blessings star forth forever; but a curseIs like a cloud—it passes.Festus: Sc. Hades. P.J. BAILEY.
To heal divisions, to relieve the oppressed,In virtue rich; in blessing others, blessed.Odyssey, Bk. VII. HOMER.Trans. ofPOPE.
Like birds, whose beauties languish half concealed,Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumesExpanded, shine with azure, green, and gold;How blessings brighten as they take their flight!Night Thoughts, Night II. DR. E. YOUNG.
In the nine heavens are eight Paradises;Where is the ninth one? In the human breast.Only the blessèd dwell in the Paradises,But blessedness dwells in the human breast.Oriental Poetry: The Ninth Paradise. W.R. ALGER.
Who has not seen that feeling born of flameCrimson the cheek at mention of a name?The rapturous touch of some divine surpriseFlash deep suffusion of celestial dyes:When hands clasped hands, and lips to lips were pressedAnd the heart's secret was at once confessed?The Microcosm: Man. A. COLES.
By noting of the lady I have markedA thousand blushing apparitions startInto her face; a thousand innocent shamesIn angel whiteness bear away those blushes.Much Ado About Nothing, Act iv. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks,Ten thousand little loves and graces springTo revel in the roses.Tamerlane, Acti.Sc. 1. N. ROWE.
While mantling on the maiden's cheek,Young roses kindled into thought.Evenings in Greece: Evening II. Song. T. MOORE.
The rising blushes, which her cheek o'erspread,Are opening roses in the lily's bed.Dione, Actii.Sc. 3. J. GAY.
Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive,Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow;They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats,And flare up bodily, wings and all.Aurora Leigh. E.B. BROWNING.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.Night Thoughts, Night VII. DR. E. YOUNG.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time,Soon as the woods on shore look dim,We'll sing at Saint Ann's our parting hymn;Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,The rapids are near and the daylight's past!A Canadian Boat Song. T. MOORE.
And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.Bermudas. A. MARVELL.
Oh, swiftly glides the bonnie boat,Just parted from the shore,And to the fisher's chorus-note,Soft moves the dipping oar!Oh, Swiftly glides the Bonnie Boat. J. BAILLIE.
Learn of the little nautilus to sail,Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.Essay on Man, Epistle III. A. POPE.
On the great streams the ships may goAbout men's business to and fro.But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleepOn crystal waters ankle-deep:I, whose diminutive design,Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine,Is fashioned on so frail a mould,A hand may launch, a hand withhold:I, rather, with the leaping troutWind, among lilies, in and out;I, the unnamed, inviolate.Green, rustic rivers navigate.The Canoe Speaks. R.L. STEVENSON.
Row us forth! Unfurl thy sail!What care we for tempest blowing?Let us kiss the blustering gale!Let us breast the waters flowing!Though the North rush cold and loud,Love shall warm and make us merry;Though the waves all weave a shroud,We will dare the Humber ferry!The Humber Ferry. B.W. PROCTER (Barry Cornwall).
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good;Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,Our pastime and our happiness will grow.Personal Talk. W. WORDSWORTH.
Silent companions of the lonely hour,Friends, who can alter or forsake.Who for inconstant roving have no power,And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take.To My Books. MRS. C. NORTON.
Some books are drenched sands,On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.A Life Drama. ALEX. SMITH.
Worthy booksAre not companions—they are solitudes:We lose ourselves in them and all our cares.Festus: Sc. A Village Feast. Evening. P.J. BAILEY.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. LORD BYRON.
Golden volumes! richest treasures,Objects of delicious pleasures!You my eyes rejoicing please,You my hands in rapture seize!Brilliant wits and musing sages,Lights who beamed through many ages!Left to your conscious leaves their story,And dared to trust you with their glory;And now their hope of fame achieved,Dear volumes! you have not deceived!Curiosities of Literature. Libraries. I. DISRAELI.
That place that does containMy books, the best companions, is to meA glorious court, where hourly I converseWith the old sages and philosophers.The Elder Brother, Acti.Sc. 2.BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Who goeth a-borrowing,Goeth a-sorrowing.Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry. June's Abstract. T. TUSSER.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be:For loan oft loses both itself and friend,And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.Hamlet, Acti.Sc. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
It is a very good world to live in,To lend, or to spend, or to give in;But to beg or to borrow, or to get a man's own,It is the very worst world that ever was known.Attributed toEARL OF ROCHESTER.
O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!King John, Actiii.Sc. 4. SHAKESPEARE.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,And mischief-making monkey from his birth.Don Juan, Canto I. LORD BYRON.
A little bench of heedless bishops here,And there a chancellor in embryo.The Schoolmistress. W. SHENSTONE.
Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face;These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his:This little abstract doth contain that largeWhich died in Geffrey: and the hand of timeShall draw this brief unto as large a volume.King John, Act ii. Sc 1. SHAKESPEARE.
O, 'tis a parlous boy;Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable;He is all the mother's from the top to toe.Richard III., Act iii. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy mother.Love's Cure, Act ii. Sc. 2. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
But strive still to be a man before your mother.Motto of No. III. Connoisseur. W. COWPER.
When one is past, another care we have;Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.Sorrows Succeed. R. HERRICK.
Old Care has a mortgage on every estate,And that's what you pay for the wealth that you get.Gifts of the Gods. J.G. SAXE.
O polished perturbation! golden care!That keepest the ports of slumber open wideTo many a watchful night!K. Henry IV., Pt. II. Act iv. Sc. 5. SHAKESPEARE.
Let one unceasing, earnest prayerBe, too, for light,—for strength to bearOur portion of the weight of care,That crushes into dumb despairOne half the human race.The Goblet of Life. H.W. LONGFELLOW.
Let the world slide, let the world go:A fig for care, and a fig for woe!If I can't pay, why I can owe,And death makes equal the high and low.Be Merry Friends. J. HEYWOOD.
Begone, dull Care, I prithee begone from me;Begone, dull Care, thou and I shall never agree.Begone, Old Care. PLAYFORD'SMusical Companion.
That powerWhich erring men call Chance.Comus. MILTON.
Chance will not do the work—Chance sends the breeze;But if the pilot slumber at the helm,The very wind that wafts us towards the portMay dash us on the shelves.—The steersman's part is vigilance,Blow it or rough or smooth.Fortunes of Nigel. SIR w. SCOTT.
I shall show the cinders of my spiritsThrough the ashes of my chance.Antony and Cleopatra, Actv.Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
And grasps the skirts of happy chance.And breasts the blows of circumstance.In Memoriam, LXIII. A. TENNYSON.
You'll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance,Each man, unknowing, great,Should frame life so that at some future hourFact and his dreamings meet.To His Orphan Grandchildren. V. HUGO.
Weep not that the world changes—did it keepA stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.Mutation. W.C. BRYANT.
Manners with fortunes, humors turn with climes,Tenets with books, and principles with times.Moral Essays, Epistle I. Pt. II. A. POPE.
As hope and fear alternate chaseOur course through life's uncertain race.Rokeby, Canto VI. SIR W. SCOTT.
This world is not for aye, nor 't is not strangeThat even our loves should with our fortunes change.Hamlet, Actiii.Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
Man's wretched state,That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.Faërie Queene, Bk. III. Canto IX. E. SPENSER.
Imperious Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!Hamlet, Act v. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE.
The seed ye sow, another reaps;The wealth ye find, another keeps;The robes ye weave, another wears;The arms ye forge, another bears.To Men of England. P.B. SHELLEY.
The flower that smiles to-dayTo-morrow dies;All that we wish to stayTempts and then flies:What is this world's delight?Lightning that mocks the night,Brief even as bright.Mutability. P.B. SHELLEY.
Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weatherStrikes through our changeful sky its coming beams;Somewhere above us, in elusive ether,Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams.Ad Amicos. B. TAYLOR.
The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,Are scattered at the feet of man, like flowers.The Excursion, Bk. IX. W. WORDSWORTH.
'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flowerOf Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bindWreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.Sonnet XXXV. W. WORDSWORTH.
Who will not mercie unto others show,How can he mercie ever hope to have?Faërie Queene, Bk. VI. E. SPENSER.
Whene'er I take my walks abroad,How many poor I see!What shall I render to my GodFor all his gifts to me?Divine Songs. DR. T. WATTS.
In Faith and Hope the world will disagree,But all mankind's concern is charity.Essays on Man, Epistle III. A. POPE.
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.Epilogue to Satires, Dial. I. A. POPE.
True charity makes others' wants their own.Poor Man's Comfort. R. DABORNE.
He hath a tear for pity, and a handOpen as day for melting charity.King Henry IV., Pt. II. Activ.Sc. 4. SHAKESPEARE.
O chime of sweet Saint Charity,Peal soon that Easter mornWhen Christ for all shall risen be,And in all hearts new-born!That Pentecost when utterance clearTo all men shall be given.When all shall sayMy Brotherhere,And hearMy Sonin heaven!Godminster Chimes. J.R. LOWELL.
Charity itself fulfils the law,And who can sever love from charity?Love's Labor's Lost. SHAKESPEARE.
That man may last, but never lives,Who much receives but nothing gives;Whom none can love, whom none can thank,Creation's blot, creation's blank.When Jesus Dwelt. T. GIBBONS.
A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure.Of Education. M.F. TUPPER.
Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law,Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.Essay on Man, Epistle II. A. POPE.
In winter I get up at nightAnd dress by yellow candlelight,In summer, quite the other way,I have to go to bed by day.Bed in Summer. R.L. STEVENSON.
Sweet childish days, that were as longAs twenty days are now.To a Butterfly. W. WORDSWORTH.
When they are young, theyAre like bells rung backwards, nothing but noiseAnd giddiness.Wit without Money. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
A truthful page is childhood's lovely face,Whereon sweet Innocence has record made,—An outward semblance of the young heart's grace,Where truth, and love, and trust are all portrayed.On a Picture of Lillie. B.P. SHILLABER.
And the King with his golden sceptre,The Pope with Saint Peter's key,Can never unlock the one little heartThat is opened only to me.For I am the Lord of a Realm,And I am Pope of a See;Indeed I'm supreme in the kingdomThat is sitting, just now, on my knee.The King and The Pope. C.H. WEBB.
Now I lay me down to take my sleep,I pray the Lord my soul to keep:If I should die before I wake,I pray the Lord my soul to take.New England Primer.
And children know,Instinctive taught, the friend and foe.Lady of the Lake, Canto II. SIR W. SCOTT.
Sweet childish days, that were as longAs twenty days are now.To a Butterfly. W. WORDSWORTH.
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water!Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!Beppo. LORD BYRON.
They are as gentleAs zephyrs blowing below the violet.Cymbeline, Act iv. Sc. 2. SHAKESPEARE.
Men are but children of a larger growth.All for Love, Act iv. Sc. 1. J. DRYDEN.
The childhood shows the manAs morning shows the day.Paradise Regained, Bk. IV. MILTON.
O most illustrious of the days of time!Day full of joy and benison to earthWhen Thou wast born, sweet Babe of Bethlehem!With dazzling pomp descending angels sungGood-will and peace to men, to God due praise.The Microcosm and Other Poems. A. COLES.
Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace;East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease;Sing the song of great joy that the angels began,Sing of glory to God and of good-will to man!A Christmas Carmen. J.G. WHITTIER.
Oh, come, all ye faithful!Triumphantly sing!Come, see in the mangerThe angels' dread King!To Bethlehem hastenWith joyful accord;Oh, hasten, oh, hasten,To worship the Lord!Christmas Day. Unknown Latin Author.Trans. ofE. CASWELL.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing you dismay,For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.The dawn rose red o'er Bethlehem, the stars shone through the gray,When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.A Christmas Carol. D.M. MULOCK CRAIK.
Now thrice-welcome Christmas, which brings us good cheer.Minced pies and plum porridge, good ale and strong beer,With pig, goose, and capon, the best that may be,—So well doth the weather and our stomachs agree….But those on whose tables no victuals appear,O, may they keep Lent all the rest of the year!Poor Robin's Almanack, 1695.
Lord of the worlds above,How pleasant and how fairThe dwellings of thy love.Thine earthly temples, are!To thine abodeMy heart aspires,With warm desiresTo see my God.The House of God. W. COWPER.
"What is a church?" Let Truth and Reason speak,They would reply, "The faithful, pure and meek,From Christian folds, the one selected race,Of all professions, and in every place."The Borough, Letter II. G. CRABBE.
Spires whose "silent fingers point to heaven."The Excursion, Bk. VI, W. Wordsworth.
I love thy church, O God:Her walls before thee stand,Dear as the apple of thine eye,And graven on thy hand.
* * * * *
For her my tears shall fall,For her my prayers ascend;To her my cares and toils be given,Till toils and cares shall end.Love to the Church. T. Dwight.
As some to Church repair,Not for the doctrine, but the music there.Essay on Criticism. A. Pope.
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,Will never mark the marble with his name.Moral Essays, Epistle III. A. Pope.
God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.The Garden, Essay V. A. Cowley.
I live not in myself, but I becomePortion of that around me; and to meHigh mountains are a feeling, but the humOf human cities torture.Childe Harold, Canto III. Lord Byron.
The people are the city.Coriolanus, Act iii. Sc. 1. Shakespeare.
Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to methan mast-hemmed Manhattan?River and sunset and scallop-edged waves of flood-tide?The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in thetwilight, and the belated lighter?Crossing Brooklyn Ferry. W. Whitman.
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eyeCould reach, with here and there a sail just skippingIn sight, then lost amidst the forestryOf masts; a wilderness of steeples peepingOn tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crownOn a fool's head—and there is London Town,Don Juan, Canto X. Lord Byron.
On the Ægean shore a city stands,Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil,Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of artsAnd eloquence, native to famous wits,Or hospitable, in her sweet recess,City or suburban, studious walks and shades;See there the olive grove of Academe,Plato's retirement, where the Attic birdTrills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.Paradise Regained, Bk. IV. MILTON.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;A palace and a prison on each hand:I saw from out the wave her structures riseAs from the stroke of the enchanter's wand;A thousand years their cloudy wings expandAround me, and a dying glory smilesO'er the far times, when many a subject landLooked to the wingèd Lion's marble piles.Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!Childe Harold, Canto IV. LORD BYRON.
In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more.And silent rows the songless gondolier;Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,And music meets not always now the ear.Childe Harold, Canto IV. LORD BYRON.
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,Lone mother of dead empires!
* * * * *
The Niobe of nations! there she stands,Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;An empty urn within her withered hands,Whose holy dust was scattered long ago.Childe Harold, Canto IV. LORD BYRON.
He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak,Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart.The Timepiece: The Task, Bk. II. W. COWPER.
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,Show me the steep and thorny way to Heaven,Whilst, like a puffed and reckless libertine,Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,And recks not his own rede.Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
Wel ought a prest ensample for to yive,By his clennesse, how that his sheep shulde lyve.
* * * * *
To draw folk to heven by fairnesseBy good ensample, this was his busynesse.Canterbury Tales: Prologue. CHAUCER.
Of right and wrong he taughtTruths as refined as ever Athens heard;And (strange to tell!) he practised what he preached.Art of Preserving HealthJ. ARMSTRONG.
By unseen hands uplifted in the lightOf sunset, yonder solitary cloudFloats, with its white apparel blown abroad,And wafted up to heaven.Michael Angelo, Pt. II. H.W. LONGFELLOW.
Yonder cloudThat rises upward always higher,And onward drags a laboring breast.And topples round the dreary west,A looming bastion fringed with fire.In Memoriam, XV. A. TENNYSON.