Time past and time to come are not—Time present is our only lot;O God, henceforth our hearts inclineTo seek no other love than thine!Montgomery.
Time past and time to come are not—Time present is our only lot;O God, henceforth our hearts inclineTo seek no other love than thine!Montgomery.
Time past and time to come are not—Time present is our only lot;O God, henceforth our hearts inclineTo seek no other love than thine!
Montgomery.
Then haste thee, Time—’tis kindness allThat speeds thy winged feet so fast;Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,And all thy pains are quickly past.Bryant.
Then haste thee, Time—’tis kindness allThat speeds thy winged feet so fast;Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,And all thy pains are quickly past.Bryant.
Then haste thee, Time—’tis kindness allThat speeds thy winged feet so fast;Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,And all thy pains are quickly past.
Bryant.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,A great-sized monster of ingratitudes:Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devouredAs fast as they are made, forgotten as soonAs done.Shakspeare.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,A great-sized monster of ingratitudes:Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devouredAs fast as they are made, forgotten as soonAs done.Shakspeare.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,A great-sized monster of ingratitudes:Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devouredAs fast as they are made, forgotten as soonAs done.
Shakspeare.
As through a valley remote I strayed,Methought, beside a mouldering temple’s stone,The tale of whose dark structure was unknown,I saw the form of Time: his scythe’s huge bladeLay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seenFearful, as oft the wind, the tussocks greenMoved stirring to and fro: the beam of mornCast a dim lustre on his look forlorn;When touching a responsive instrument,Stern o’er the chords his furrowed brow he bent:Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet,Played smiling with the hour-glass at his feet!Apart from these, and in a verdant glade,A sleeping infant on the moss was laid,O’er which a female form her vigils kept,And watched it, softly-breathing as it slept.Then I drew nigh, and to my listening earCame, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:“Lullaby, sing lullaby,—Sweetest babe, in safety lie;I thy mother sit and sing,Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.Here, where innocence reposes,Fairy sylphs, your sports delay;Then the breath of morning rosesFrom its bed of bliss convey.Lullaby, sing lullaby,—Sweetest babe, in safety lie;I thy mother sit and sing,Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.”Bowles.
As through a valley remote I strayed,Methought, beside a mouldering temple’s stone,The tale of whose dark structure was unknown,I saw the form of Time: his scythe’s huge bladeLay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seenFearful, as oft the wind, the tussocks greenMoved stirring to and fro: the beam of mornCast a dim lustre on his look forlorn;When touching a responsive instrument,Stern o’er the chords his furrowed brow he bent:Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet,Played smiling with the hour-glass at his feet!Apart from these, and in a verdant glade,A sleeping infant on the moss was laid,O’er which a female form her vigils kept,And watched it, softly-breathing as it slept.Then I drew nigh, and to my listening earCame, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:“Lullaby, sing lullaby,—Sweetest babe, in safety lie;I thy mother sit and sing,Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.Here, where innocence reposes,Fairy sylphs, your sports delay;Then the breath of morning rosesFrom its bed of bliss convey.Lullaby, sing lullaby,—Sweetest babe, in safety lie;I thy mother sit and sing,Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.”Bowles.
As through a valley remote I strayed,Methought, beside a mouldering temple’s stone,The tale of whose dark structure was unknown,I saw the form of Time: his scythe’s huge bladeLay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seenFearful, as oft the wind, the tussocks greenMoved stirring to and fro: the beam of mornCast a dim lustre on his look forlorn;When touching a responsive instrument,Stern o’er the chords his furrowed brow he bent:Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet,Played smiling with the hour-glass at his feet!Apart from these, and in a verdant glade,A sleeping infant on the moss was laid,O’er which a female form her vigils kept,And watched it, softly-breathing as it slept.Then I drew nigh, and to my listening earCame, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:
“Lullaby, sing lullaby,—Sweetest babe, in safety lie;I thy mother sit and sing,Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.Here, where innocence reposes,Fairy sylphs, your sports delay;Then the breath of morning rosesFrom its bed of bliss convey.Lullaby, sing lullaby,—Sweetest babe, in safety lie;I thy mother sit and sing,Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.”
Bowles.
Relentless Time! that steals with silent tread,Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.Fame, on the pyramid’s aspiring top,With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;The feeble characters of Glory’s handShall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;But not with these expire the sacred flameOf virtue, or the good man’s awful name.Bowles.
Relentless Time! that steals with silent tread,Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.Fame, on the pyramid’s aspiring top,With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;The feeble characters of Glory’s handShall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;But not with these expire the sacred flameOf virtue, or the good man’s awful name.Bowles.
Relentless Time! that steals with silent tread,Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.Fame, on the pyramid’s aspiring top,With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;The feeble characters of Glory’s handShall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;But not with these expire the sacred flameOf virtue, or the good man’s awful name.
Bowles.
O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to laySoftest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)The faint pang stealest unperceived away;On thee I rest my only hope at last,And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tearThat flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,I may look back on every sorrow past,And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile—As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient showerForgetful, though its wings are wet the while:—Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!Bowles.
O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to laySoftest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)The faint pang stealest unperceived away;On thee I rest my only hope at last,And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tearThat flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,I may look back on every sorrow past,And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile—As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient showerForgetful, though its wings are wet the while:—Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!Bowles.
O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to laySoftest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)The faint pang stealest unperceived away;On thee I rest my only hope at last,And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tearThat flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,I may look back on every sorrow past,And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile—As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient showerForgetful, though its wings are wet the while:—Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
Bowles.
Who would seek or prizeDelights that end in aching?Who would trust to tiesThat every hour are breaking?Better far to beIn utter darkness lying,Than be blest with light, and seeThat light for ever flying.All that’s bright must fade,—The brightest still the fleetest,All that’s sweet was madeBut to be lost when sweetest!Moore.
Who would seek or prizeDelights that end in aching?Who would trust to tiesThat every hour are breaking?Better far to beIn utter darkness lying,Than be blest with light, and seeThat light for ever flying.All that’s bright must fade,—The brightest still the fleetest,All that’s sweet was madeBut to be lost when sweetest!Moore.
Who would seek or prizeDelights that end in aching?Who would trust to tiesThat every hour are breaking?Better far to beIn utter darkness lying,Than be blest with light, and seeThat light for ever flying.All that’s bright must fade,—The brightest still the fleetest,All that’s sweet was madeBut to be lost when sweetest!
Moore.
I had much rather seeA crested dragon or a basilisk,Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.Dryden.
I had much rather seeA crested dragon or a basilisk,Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.Dryden.
I had much rather seeA crested dragon or a basilisk,Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.
Dryden.
Hate all, curse all: show charity to none;But let the famished flesh slide from the bone,Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogsWhat thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow them,Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted woods,And may diseases lick up their false bloods.Shakspeare.
Hate all, curse all: show charity to none;But let the famished flesh slide from the bone,Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogsWhat thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow them,Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted woods,And may diseases lick up their false bloods.Shakspeare.
Hate all, curse all: show charity to none;But let the famished flesh slide from the bone,Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogsWhat thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow them,Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted woods,And may diseases lick up their false bloods.
Shakspeare.
I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind:For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,That I might love thee something.Shakspeare.
I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind:For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,That I might love thee something.Shakspeare.
I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind:For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,That I might love thee something.
Shakspeare.
I’ll keep my way alone, and burn away—Evil or good I care not, so I spreadTremendous desolation on my road:I’ll be remembered as huge meteors are;From the dismay they scatter.Proctor.
I’ll keep my way alone, and burn away—Evil or good I care not, so I spreadTremendous desolation on my road:I’ll be remembered as huge meteors are;From the dismay they scatter.Proctor.
I’ll keep my way alone, and burn away—Evil or good I care not, so I spreadTremendous desolation on my road:I’ll be remembered as huge meteors are;From the dismay they scatter.
Proctor.
I see thou art implacable, more deafTo prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and seasAre reconciled at length, and sea to shore:Thy anger, unappeasable, still ragesEternal tempest never to be calm.Milton.
I see thou art implacable, more deafTo prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and seasAre reconciled at length, and sea to shore:Thy anger, unappeasable, still ragesEternal tempest never to be calm.Milton.
I see thou art implacable, more deafTo prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and seasAre reconciled at length, and sea to shore:Thy anger, unappeasable, still ragesEternal tempest never to be calm.
Milton.
Warped by the world in disappointment’s school.In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe,He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,And not the traitors who betrayed him still;Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men,Had left him joy, and means to give again.Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her force,He hated men too much to feel remorse,And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,To pay the injuries of some on all.Byron.
Warped by the world in disappointment’s school.In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe,He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,And not the traitors who betrayed him still;Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men,Had left him joy, and means to give again.Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her force,He hated men too much to feel remorse,And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,To pay the injuries of some on all.Byron.
Warped by the world in disappointment’s school.In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe,He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,And not the traitors who betrayed him still;Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men,Had left him joy, and means to give again.Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her force,He hated men too much to feel remorse,And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,To pay the injuries of some on all.
Byron.
He has outsoared the shadow of our night;Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,And that unrest which men miscall delight,Can touch him not and torture not again;From the contagion of the world’s slow stainHe is secure, and now can never mournA heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.Shelley.
He has outsoared the shadow of our night;Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,And that unrest which men miscall delight,Can touch him not and torture not again;From the contagion of the world’s slow stainHe is secure, and now can never mournA heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.Shelley.
He has outsoared the shadow of our night;Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,And that unrest which men miscall delight,Can touch him not and torture not again;From the contagion of the world’s slow stainHe is secure, and now can never mournA heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
Shelley.
They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwellIn his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,As if the Star of Bitterness which fellOn earth of old, and touched them with its beams,Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate;And which, even now, struck as it is with blight,Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light—How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling raysOf a bright, ruined spirit through his lays,Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,What desolating grief, what wrongs had drivenThat noble nature into cold eclipse—Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven,And born, not only to surprise, but cheerWith warmth and lustre all within its sphere,Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lastsNaught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!Moore.
They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwellIn his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,As if the Star of Bitterness which fellOn earth of old, and touched them with its beams,Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate;And which, even now, struck as it is with blight,Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light—How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling raysOf a bright, ruined spirit through his lays,Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,What desolating grief, what wrongs had drivenThat noble nature into cold eclipse—Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven,And born, not only to surprise, but cheerWith warmth and lustre all within its sphere,Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lastsNaught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!Moore.
They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwellIn his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,As if the Star of Bitterness which fellOn earth of old, and touched them with its beams,Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate;And which, even now, struck as it is with blight,Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light—How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling raysOf a bright, ruined spirit through his lays,Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,What desolating grief, what wrongs had drivenThat noble nature into cold eclipse—Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven,And born, not only to surprise, but cheerWith warmth and lustre all within its sphere,Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lastsNaught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!
Moore.
Inesilla! I am here:Thy own cavalierIs now beneath thy lattice playing:Why art thou delaying?He hath ridden many a mileBut to see thy smile:The young light on the flowers is shining,Yet he is repining.What to him is a summer star,If his love’s afar?What to him the flowers perfuming,When his heart’s consuming?Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide?Beauty may abideEven before the eye of morning,And want no adorning.Now, upon their paths of light,Starry spirits brightTo catch thy brighter glance are staying:Why art thou delaying?Barry Cornwall.
Inesilla! I am here:Thy own cavalierIs now beneath thy lattice playing:Why art thou delaying?He hath ridden many a mileBut to see thy smile:The young light on the flowers is shining,Yet he is repining.What to him is a summer star,If his love’s afar?What to him the flowers perfuming,When his heart’s consuming?Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide?Beauty may abideEven before the eye of morning,And want no adorning.Now, upon their paths of light,Starry spirits brightTo catch thy brighter glance are staying:Why art thou delaying?Barry Cornwall.
Inesilla! I am here:Thy own cavalierIs now beneath thy lattice playing:Why art thou delaying?
He hath ridden many a mileBut to see thy smile:The young light on the flowers is shining,Yet he is repining.
What to him is a summer star,If his love’s afar?What to him the flowers perfuming,When his heart’s consuming?
Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide?Beauty may abideEven before the eye of morning,And want no adorning.
Now, upon their paths of light,Starry spirits brightTo catch thy brighter glance are staying:Why art thou delaying?
Barry Cornwall.
Listen! from the forest boughsThe voice-like angel of the springUtters his soft vowsTo the proud rose blossoming.And now beneath thy lattice dear!I am like the bird complaining:Thou above (I fear)Like the rose disdaining.From her chamber in the skiesShouts the lark at break of morning,And when day-light fliesComes the raven’s warning.This of gloom and that of mirthIn their mystic numbers tell;But thoughts of sweeter birthTeacheth the nightingale.Barry Cornwall.
Listen! from the forest boughsThe voice-like angel of the springUtters his soft vowsTo the proud rose blossoming.And now beneath thy lattice dear!I am like the bird complaining:Thou above (I fear)Like the rose disdaining.From her chamber in the skiesShouts the lark at break of morning,And when day-light fliesComes the raven’s warning.This of gloom and that of mirthIn their mystic numbers tell;But thoughts of sweeter birthTeacheth the nightingale.Barry Cornwall.
Listen! from the forest boughsThe voice-like angel of the springUtters his soft vowsTo the proud rose blossoming.
And now beneath thy lattice dear!I am like the bird complaining:Thou above (I fear)Like the rose disdaining.
From her chamber in the skiesShouts the lark at break of morning,And when day-light fliesComes the raven’s warning.
This of gloom and that of mirthIn their mystic numbers tell;But thoughts of sweeter birthTeacheth the nightingale.
Barry Cornwall.
Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollownessThat moves more dear compassion of the mindThan beauty brought to unworthy wretchednessThrough envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind:I, whether lately through her brightness blind,Or through allegiance and vast fealty,Which I do owe unto all womankind,Feel my heart pierced with so great agony,When such I see, that all for pity I could die.Spenser.
Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollownessThat moves more dear compassion of the mindThan beauty brought to unworthy wretchednessThrough envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind:I, whether lately through her brightness blind,Or through allegiance and vast fealty,Which I do owe unto all womankind,Feel my heart pierced with so great agony,When such I see, that all for pity I could die.Spenser.
Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollownessThat moves more dear compassion of the mindThan beauty brought to unworthy wretchednessThrough envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind:I, whether lately through her brightness blind,Or through allegiance and vast fealty,Which I do owe unto all womankind,Feel my heart pierced with so great agony,When such I see, that all for pity I could die.
Spenser.
Like Ariadne, when in pale despairThe Athenian left her,—so sad Eva pined,And so she went complaining to the air,And gave her tresses to the careless wind:—The colour of her fate was on her mind,Dark, death-like, and despairing;—and her eyeShone lustrous, like the light of prophecy.Over the grassy meads,—beside lone streams,To perilous heights which no weak step could reach,She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreamsWith musing, and would move the tremulous beechAnd shuddering aspen with imploring speech;For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed)Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride.Barry Cornwall.
Like Ariadne, when in pale despairThe Athenian left her,—so sad Eva pined,And so she went complaining to the air,And gave her tresses to the careless wind:—The colour of her fate was on her mind,Dark, death-like, and despairing;—and her eyeShone lustrous, like the light of prophecy.Over the grassy meads,—beside lone streams,To perilous heights which no weak step could reach,She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreamsWith musing, and would move the tremulous beechAnd shuddering aspen with imploring speech;For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed)Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride.Barry Cornwall.
Like Ariadne, when in pale despairThe Athenian left her,—so sad Eva pined,And so she went complaining to the air,And gave her tresses to the careless wind:—The colour of her fate was on her mind,Dark, death-like, and despairing;—and her eyeShone lustrous, like the light of prophecy.
Over the grassy meads,—beside lone streams,To perilous heights which no weak step could reach,She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreamsWith musing, and would move the tremulous beechAnd shuddering aspen with imploring speech;For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed)Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride.
Barry Cornwall.
NARCISSUS, SCARLET, GERANIUM, MARIGOLD. Your self-love and stupidity excite my pity.NARCISSUS, SCARLET, GERANIUM, MARIGOLD.Your self-love and stupidity excite my pity.
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,That flitted from tree to treeWith the talisman’s glittering glory—Has Hope been that bird to thee?On branch after branch alighting,The gem did she still display,And, when nearest and most inviting,Then waft the fair gem away!If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,When Sorrow herself looked bright;If thus the fond hope has cheated,That led thee along so light;If thus, too, the cold world witherEach feeling that once was dear;—Come, child of misfortune! come hither,I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.Moore.
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,That flitted from tree to treeWith the talisman’s glittering glory—Has Hope been that bird to thee?On branch after branch alighting,The gem did she still display,And, when nearest and most inviting,Then waft the fair gem away!If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,When Sorrow herself looked bright;If thus the fond hope has cheated,That led thee along so light;If thus, too, the cold world witherEach feeling that once was dear;—Come, child of misfortune! come hither,I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.Moore.
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,That flitted from tree to treeWith the talisman’s glittering glory—Has Hope been that bird to thee?On branch after branch alighting,The gem did she still display,And, when nearest and most inviting,Then waft the fair gem away!If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,When Sorrow herself looked bright;If thus the fond hope has cheated,That led thee along so light;If thus, too, the cold world witherEach feeling that once was dear;—Come, child of misfortune! come hither,I’ll weep with thee, tear for tear.
Moore.
The blind man groping cautiously his wayAlong the crowded pavement of a city,Has natural claims upon our tender pity.Whether ’twere night, or whether it were day,Would seem to make small difference to himWhose days and nights alike are ever dim;Yet still the tramp of human feet, and humOf human voices, sweetly fill his ear;The surgings of the tides of life appearLike the deep sounds that from the ocean comeAt midnight to the listener. Pity’s glanceUpon his form instinctively we throw;And while some sadness clouds our countenance,ToGodwe pray to save us from such wo.MacKellar.
The blind man groping cautiously his wayAlong the crowded pavement of a city,Has natural claims upon our tender pity.Whether ’twere night, or whether it were day,Would seem to make small difference to himWhose days and nights alike are ever dim;Yet still the tramp of human feet, and humOf human voices, sweetly fill his ear;The surgings of the tides of life appearLike the deep sounds that from the ocean comeAt midnight to the listener. Pity’s glanceUpon his form instinctively we throw;And while some sadness clouds our countenance,ToGodwe pray to save us from such wo.MacKellar.
The blind man groping cautiously his wayAlong the crowded pavement of a city,Has natural claims upon our tender pity.Whether ’twere night, or whether it were day,Would seem to make small difference to himWhose days and nights alike are ever dim;Yet still the tramp of human feet, and humOf human voices, sweetly fill his ear;The surgings of the tides of life appearLike the deep sounds that from the ocean comeAt midnight to the listener. Pity’s glanceUpon his form instinctively we throw;And while some sadness clouds our countenance,ToGodwe pray to save us from such wo.
MacKellar.
Come, chase that starting tear away,Ere mine to meet it springs;To-night, at least, to-night be gay,Whatever to-morrow brings!Like sunset gleams, that linger lateWhen all is darkening fast,Are hours like these we snatch from Fate—The brightest and the last.Moore.
Come, chase that starting tear away,Ere mine to meet it springs;To-night, at least, to-night be gay,Whatever to-morrow brings!Like sunset gleams, that linger lateWhen all is darkening fast,Are hours like these we snatch from Fate—The brightest and the last.Moore.
Come, chase that starting tear away,Ere mine to meet it springs;To-night, at least, to-night be gay,Whatever to-morrow brings!Like sunset gleams, that linger lateWhen all is darkening fast,Are hours like these we snatch from Fate—The brightest and the last.
Moore.
’Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rose-bud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.Moore.
’Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rose-bud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.Moore.
’Tis the last rose of summer,Left blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rose-bud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh!
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.
Moore.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;Th’ expectant wee things, todlin stacher throughTo meet their dad, wi’ flichtering noise and glee;His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,The lisping infant prattling on his knee,Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.Burns.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;Th’ expectant wee things, todlin stacher throughTo meet their dad, wi’ flichtering noise and glee;His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,The lisping infant prattling on his knee,Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.Burns.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;Th’ expectant wee things, todlin stacher throughTo meet their dad, wi’ flichtering noise and glee;His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,The lisping infant prattling on his knee,Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Burns.
How warmly we are loved, we seldom learnTill pain and sorrow take our strength away;Then hearts too long estranged, to us will turn,And be at peace, as in a former day.Our true and loving wife more loving grows;Our little ones in pitying wonder standBeside the bed and clasp our fevered hand;Their glistening eye the tear of feeling shows;And it may be, when evening calls to rest,They sadly kneel beside their mother’s chair,Their silvery voices blend in simple prayer,And for their sire they make a child’s request.The times of anguish vainly are not given.That lead a family to unity and heaven.MacKellar.
How warmly we are loved, we seldom learnTill pain and sorrow take our strength away;Then hearts too long estranged, to us will turn,And be at peace, as in a former day.Our true and loving wife more loving grows;Our little ones in pitying wonder standBeside the bed and clasp our fevered hand;Their glistening eye the tear of feeling shows;And it may be, when evening calls to rest,They sadly kneel beside their mother’s chair,Their silvery voices blend in simple prayer,And for their sire they make a child’s request.The times of anguish vainly are not given.That lead a family to unity and heaven.MacKellar.
How warmly we are loved, we seldom learnTill pain and sorrow take our strength away;Then hearts too long estranged, to us will turn,And be at peace, as in a former day.Our true and loving wife more loving grows;Our little ones in pitying wonder standBeside the bed and clasp our fevered hand;Their glistening eye the tear of feeling shows;And it may be, when evening calls to rest,They sadly kneel beside their mother’s chair,Their silvery voices blend in simple prayer,And for their sire they make a child’s request.The times of anguish vainly are not given.That lead a family to unity and heaven.
MacKellar.
Poor madam now condemned to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzled to beholdHer present face surpass the old:With modesty her cheeks are dyed,Humility displaces pride;For tawdry finery is seenA person ever neatly clean;No more presuming on her sway,She learns good nature every day;Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.Goldsmith.
Poor madam now condemned to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzled to beholdHer present face surpass the old:With modesty her cheeks are dyed,Humility displaces pride;For tawdry finery is seenA person ever neatly clean;No more presuming on her sway,She learns good nature every day;Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.Goldsmith.
Poor madam now condemned to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzled to beholdHer present face surpass the old:With modesty her cheeks are dyed,Humility displaces pride;For tawdry finery is seenA person ever neatly clean;No more presuming on her sway,She learns good nature every day;Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
Goldsmith.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,These simple blessings of the lowly train,To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art:Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind,Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,The toiling pleasure sickens into pain:And e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy,The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?Goldsmith.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,These simple blessings of the lowly train,To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art:Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind,Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,The toiling pleasure sickens into pain:And e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy,The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?Goldsmith.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,These simple blessings of the lowly train,To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art:Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind,Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,The toiling pleasure sickens into pain:And e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy,The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?
Goldsmith.
The first sure symptoms of a mind in health,Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.Young.
The first sure symptoms of a mind in health,Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.Young.
The first sure symptoms of a mind in health,Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
Young.
Nor need we power or splendour,—Wide hall or lordly dome;The good, the true, the tender,—These form the wealth of home.Mrs. Hale.
Nor need we power or splendour,—Wide hall or lordly dome;The good, the true, the tender,—These form the wealth of home.Mrs. Hale.
Nor need we power or splendour,—Wide hall or lordly dome;The good, the true, the tender,—These form the wealth of home.
Mrs. Hale.
His warm but simple home, where he enjoysWith her who shares his pleasure and his heart,Sweet converse.Cowper.
His warm but simple home, where he enjoysWith her who shares his pleasure and his heart,Sweet converse.Cowper.
His warm but simple home, where he enjoysWith her who shares his pleasure and his heart,Sweet converse.
Cowper.
Home is the sphere of harmony and peace,The spot where angels find a resting-place,When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth.Mrs. Hale.
Home is the sphere of harmony and peace,The spot where angels find a resting-place,When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth.Mrs. Hale.
Home is the sphere of harmony and peace,The spot where angels find a resting-place,When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth.
Mrs. Hale.
Home is the resortOf love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,Supporting and supported, polished friendsAnd dear relations mingle into bliss.Thomson.
Home is the resortOf love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,Supporting and supported, polished friendsAnd dear relations mingle into bliss.Thomson.
Home is the resortOf love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,Supporting and supported, polished friendsAnd dear relations mingle into bliss.
Thomson.
An angel always dwells beneath the roofWhere, in her virtue, a sweet wife fulfilsHer gentle duties; and unnumbered illsFrom that love-guarded precinct keep aloof.MacKellar.
An angel always dwells beneath the roofWhere, in her virtue, a sweet wife fulfilsHer gentle duties; and unnumbered illsFrom that love-guarded precinct keep aloof.MacKellar.
An angel always dwells beneath the roofWhere, in her virtue, a sweet wife fulfilsHer gentle duties; and unnumbered illsFrom that love-guarded precinct keep aloof.
MacKellar.
How use doth breed a habit in a man!The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:There can I sit alone, unseen of any,And to the nightingale’s complaining notesTune my distresses, and record my woes.Shakspeare.
How use doth breed a habit in a man!The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:There can I sit alone, unseen of any,And to the nightingale’s complaining notesTune my distresses, and record my woes.Shakspeare.
How use doth breed a habit in a man!The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:There can I sit alone, unseen of any,And to the nightingale’s complaining notesTune my distresses, and record my woes.
Shakspeare.
Full many a dreary hour have I past,My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercastWith heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thoughtNo sphery strains by me could e’er be caughtFrom the blue dome, though I to dimness gazeOn the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,Pry ’mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:That I should never hear Apollo’s song,Though feathery clouds were floating all alongThe purple west, and, two bright streaks between,The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:That the still murmur of the honey-beeWould never teach a rural song to me:That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slantingWould never make a lay of mine enchanting,Or warm my breast with ardour to unfoldSome tale of love and arms in time of old.Keats.
Full many a dreary hour have I past,My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercastWith heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thoughtNo sphery strains by me could e’er be caughtFrom the blue dome, though I to dimness gazeOn the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,Pry ’mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:That I should never hear Apollo’s song,Though feathery clouds were floating all alongThe purple west, and, two bright streaks between,The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:That the still murmur of the honey-beeWould never teach a rural song to me:That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slantingWould never make a lay of mine enchanting,Or warm my breast with ardour to unfoldSome tale of love and arms in time of old.Keats.
Full many a dreary hour have I past,My brain bewildered, and my mind o’ercastWith heaviness; in seasons when I’ve thoughtNo sphery strains by me could e’er be caughtFrom the blue dome, though I to dimness gazeOn the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,Pry ’mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:That I should never hear Apollo’s song,Though feathery clouds were floating all alongThe purple west, and, two bright streaks between,The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:That the still murmur of the honey-beeWould never teach a rural song to me:That the bright glance from beauty’s eyelids slantingWould never make a lay of mine enchanting,Or warm my breast with ardour to unfoldSome tale of love and arms in time of old.
Keats.
No dinInvades the temple of their mind;—the mirthAnd sighs of men are sounds to them unknown,Though well they know the spirit’s inward groan;And mortal agonies belong to themAs well as to their fellow men; for deathHath passed on all who draw the vital breath,And where sin is, there doth the law condemn.Ah, hapless men! relentless Silence keepsHer watchpost at the portals of the ear;No heavenly word or sound approacheth nearAnd music’s melting influence in lasting stillness sleeps.MacKellar.
No dinInvades the temple of their mind;—the mirthAnd sighs of men are sounds to them unknown,Though well they know the spirit’s inward groan;And mortal agonies belong to themAs well as to their fellow men; for deathHath passed on all who draw the vital breath,And where sin is, there doth the law condemn.Ah, hapless men! relentless Silence keepsHer watchpost at the portals of the ear;No heavenly word or sound approacheth nearAnd music’s melting influence in lasting stillness sleeps.MacKellar.
No dinInvades the temple of their mind;—the mirthAnd sighs of men are sounds to them unknown,Though well they know the spirit’s inward groan;And mortal agonies belong to themAs well as to their fellow men; for deathHath passed on all who draw the vital breath,And where sin is, there doth the law condemn.Ah, hapless men! relentless Silence keepsHer watchpost at the portals of the ear;No heavenly word or sound approacheth nearAnd music’s melting influence in lasting stillness sleeps.
MacKellar.
There was a poet whose untimely tombNo human hands with pious reverence reared,But the charmed eddies of autumnal windsBuilt o’er his mouldering bones a pyramidOf mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness;A lovely youth!—no mourning maiden deckedWith weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:Gentle and brave, and generous, no lorn bardBreathed o’er his dark fate one melodious sigh:He lived, he died, he sang, in solitude.Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,And virgins, as unknown he past, have sighedAnd wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,And Silence, too, enamoured of that voice,Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.Shelley.
There was a poet whose untimely tombNo human hands with pious reverence reared,But the charmed eddies of autumnal windsBuilt o’er his mouldering bones a pyramidOf mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness;A lovely youth!—no mourning maiden deckedWith weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:Gentle and brave, and generous, no lorn bardBreathed o’er his dark fate one melodious sigh:He lived, he died, he sang, in solitude.Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,And virgins, as unknown he past, have sighedAnd wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,And Silence, too, enamoured of that voice,Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.Shelley.
There was a poet whose untimely tombNo human hands with pious reverence reared,But the charmed eddies of autumnal windsBuilt o’er his mouldering bones a pyramidOf mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness;A lovely youth!—no mourning maiden deckedWith weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:Gentle and brave, and generous, no lorn bardBreathed o’er his dark fate one melodious sigh:He lived, he died, he sang, in solitude.Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,And virgins, as unknown he past, have sighedAnd wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,And Silence, too, enamoured of that voice,Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.
Shelley.
How blest the Solitary’s lot,Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,Within his humble cell,The cavern wild with tangling roots,Sits o’er his newly-gathered fruits,Beside his crystal well!Or, haply, to his evening thought,By unfrequented stream,The ways of men are distant brought,A faint collected dream:While praising, and raisingHis thoughts to heaven on high,As wand’ring, meand’ring,He views the solemn sky.Than I, no lonely hermit placedWhere never human footstep traced,Less fit to play the part;The lucky moment to improve,And just to stop, and just to move,With self-respecting art:But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joysWhich I too keenly taste,The Solitary can despise,Can want, and yet be blest!He needs not, he heeds not,Or human love or hate,Whilst I here must cry here,At perfidy ingrate!Burns.
How blest the Solitary’s lot,Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,Within his humble cell,The cavern wild with tangling roots,Sits o’er his newly-gathered fruits,Beside his crystal well!Or, haply, to his evening thought,By unfrequented stream,The ways of men are distant brought,A faint collected dream:While praising, and raisingHis thoughts to heaven on high,As wand’ring, meand’ring,He views the solemn sky.Than I, no lonely hermit placedWhere never human footstep traced,Less fit to play the part;The lucky moment to improve,And just to stop, and just to move,With self-respecting art:But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joysWhich I too keenly taste,The Solitary can despise,Can want, and yet be blest!He needs not, he heeds not,Or human love or hate,Whilst I here must cry here,At perfidy ingrate!Burns.
How blest the Solitary’s lot,Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,Within his humble cell,The cavern wild with tangling roots,Sits o’er his newly-gathered fruits,Beside his crystal well!Or, haply, to his evening thought,By unfrequented stream,The ways of men are distant brought,A faint collected dream:While praising, and raisingHis thoughts to heaven on high,As wand’ring, meand’ring,He views the solemn sky.Than I, no lonely hermit placedWhere never human footstep traced,Less fit to play the part;The lucky moment to improve,And just to stop, and just to move,With self-respecting art:But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joysWhich I too keenly taste,The Solitary can despise,Can want, and yet be blest!He needs not, he heeds not,Or human love or hate,Whilst I here must cry here,At perfidy ingrate!
Burns.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.Heaped in the hollow of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit’s tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.Where are the flowers, the young fair flowers, that lately sprang and stood,In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lonely beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie: but the cold November rainCalls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the wild-rose and the orchis died, amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the streams no more.And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.Bryant.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.Heaped in the hollow of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit’s tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.Where are the flowers, the young fair flowers, that lately sprang and stood,In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lonely beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie: but the cold November rainCalls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the wild-rose and the orchis died, amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the streams no more.And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.Bryant.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.Heaped in the hollow of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit’s tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.Where are the flowers, the young fair flowers, that lately sprang and stood,In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lonely beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie: but the cold November rainCalls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the wild-rose and the orchis died, amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the streams no more.And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
Bryant.
TheRoman Catholic monks, or the observers of the Roman Catholic ritual, have compiled a Catalogue of Flowers for every day in the year, and dedicated each flower to a particular saint, on account of its blooming about the time of that saint’s festival. These appropriations form a complete Calendar of the Flowers.
The figures attached express the year in which the saint died.