Welby the Worm Who Lost His Wiggle (Welby, A Fantasy for Children Book 1)

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  5. Item 1 of 0. Bestselling Children's Books Where's the Unicorn? What's Happening to Me? Rowling Children's Books. Where's Spot? Giraffes Can't Dance: International No. Surfaces: A History by Joseph A. Amato Rare Books. Gann Rare Books. Stephens Rare Books. Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue; Where patience, honour, sweet humanity, Calm fortitude, take root and strongly flourish.

    Affliction is the good man's shining scene; Prosperity conceals his brightest ray; As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man. Misfortune does not always wait on vice; Nor is success the constant guest of virtue. I pray thee, deal with men in misery, Like one who may himself be miserable. Aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow; But, crush'd or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around. For every want, that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest.

    Each breast, however fortified, By courage, apathy, or pride, Has still one secret path for thee, Man's subtle foe - Adversity. The good are better made by ill, As odours crush'd are better still. The brave unfortunates are our best acquaintance; They show us virtue may be much distress'd, And give us their example how to suffer. Though losses and crosses Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye 'll get there, Ye 'll find nae other where. So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

    Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nurs'd the pinion that impell'd the steel; 3. While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. I have not quail'd to danger's brow When high and happy-need I now? Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs on the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so," Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who 'stead of saying what you now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last; And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " bonos mores," With a long memorandum of old stories.

    The rugged metal of the mine Must burn before its surface shine; But, plung'd within the furnace flame, It bends and melts-tho' still the same. What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deepest on the brow? To view each loved one blighted from life's page, And be alone on earth-as I am now. From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy, Have I not seen what human things could do? From the loud roar of foaming calumny, To the small whisper of the as paltry few And subtle venom of the reptile crew?

    A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray Alone, tho' thousand pilgrims fill the way: While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, I cannot call one single blossom mine. The blackest ink of fate was sure my lot, And when fate writ my name, it made a blot. Alone she sate-alone!

    The New Timon. I may not weep-I cannot sigh, A weight is pressing on my breast; A breath breathes on me witheringly, My tears are dry, my sighs supprest! WILt S. Let me entreat You to unfold the anguish of your heart; Mishaps are master'd by advice discreet, And counsel mitigates the greatest smart. Direct not him whose way himself will choose; 'T is breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ear as profitless As water in a sieve. I shall the effect of this good lesson keep, As watchman to my heart.

    Men counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before 'Nould give preceptial medicine to rage,. Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air, and agony with words. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. There is in life no blessing like affection; It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues, And bringeth down to earth its native heaven:Life has naught else that may supply its place.

    Miss L. Oh, sweet are the tones of affection sincere, When they come from the depth of the heart; And sweet are the words that banish each care, And bid sorrow for ever depart! How cling we to a thing our hearts have nursed! No love is like a sister's love, Unselfish, free, and pureA flame that, lighted from above, Will guide but ne'er allure.

    It knows no frown of jealous fear, No blush of conscious guile; Its wrongs are pardon'd through a tear, Its hopes crown'd by a smile. FRY'S Leonora. The sorrows of thy wounded heart I'll teach thee to forget, And win thee back by gentle art From passion's vain regret.

    And Time shall bring on faithful wing, From o'er the flood of tears, The pledge of peace, when grief may cease, And joy light after years. When forty winters shall besiege your brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

    Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet. Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. But grant to life some perquisites of joy; A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale, Long rifled life of sweets can yield no more. Age sits with decent grace upon his visage, And worthily becomes his silver locks; He wears the marks of many years well spent, Of virtue truth well tried, and wise experience. Thus aged men, full loth and slow The vanities of life forego, And count their youthful follies o'er, Till memory lends her light no more.

    Although my heart in earlier youth Might kindle with more warm desire, Believe me, I have gain'd in truth Much more than I have lost in fire. What was but passion's sigh before, Has since been turn'd to reason's vow, And tho' I then might love thee more, Yet oh!

    I love thee better now! Tho' time has touch'd her too, she still retains Much beauty and more majesty. A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, Which but supplies a feeling to decay. Now then the ills of age, its pains, its care, The drooping spirit for its fate prepare;. And each affection failing, leaves the heart Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart. An old, old man, with beard as white as snow.

    The eye dims, and the heart gets old and slow; The lithe limb stiffens, and the sun-hued locks Thin themselves off, or whitely wither. Why grieve that Time has brought so soon The sober age of manhood on? As idly should I weep at noon To see the blush of morning gone. The visions of my youth are past, Too bright, too beautiful to last. Fled are the charms that graced that ivory brow; Where smiled a dimple, gapes a wrinkle now. Why then doth flesh, a bubble-glass of breath, Hunt after honour and advancement vain, And rear a trophy for devouring death, With so great labour and long-lasting painAs if life's days for ever should remain?

    Vaulting ambition overleaps itself. Seeking the bubble Reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. Who trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of fame. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour, The path of glory leads but to the grave! What various wants on power attend! Ambition never gains its end. Who hath not heard the rich complain Of surfeit and corporeal pain?

    And, barr'd from every use of wealth, Envy the ploughman's strength and health? GAY'S Fables. Who never felt the impatient throb, The longing of a heart that pants And reaches after distant good? The fiery soul abhorr'd in Catiline, In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine: The same ambition can destroy or save, And make a patriot, as it makes a knave. Heaven still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. Thus the fond moth around the taper plays, And sports and flutters near the treacherous blaze;.

    Ravish'd with joy, he wings his eager flight, Nor dreams of ruin in so clear a light: He tempts his fate, and courts a glorious doom, A br-ght destruction and a shining tomb. So much the raging thirst for fame exceeds The generous warmth which prompts to worthy deeds, That none confess fair Virtue's genuine power, Or woo her to their breasts without a dower. But glory's glory; and if you would find What that is-ask the pig who sees the wind. Longings sublime and aspirations high. What millions died, that Cresar might be great! Press on!

    Ambition is the germ, From which all growth of nobleness proceeds. In some, ambition is the chief concern; For this they languish and for this they burn; For this they smile, for this alone they sigh; For this they live, for this would freely die. WATSON And man, the image of his God, is found, Just for an empty name, an airy sound, Spending the short remainder of his life In brutal conflict, and in deadly strife:For 't is a strife, disguise it as you may, Keen as the warrior's in the battle day.

    Titles of honour add not to his worth, Who is an honour to his title. Man is a name of honour for a king; Additions take away from each chief thing. A fool indeed has great need of a title; It teaches men to call him Count and Duke, And to forget his proper name of fool. Titles, the servile courtier's lean reward, Sometimes the pay of virtue, but more oft The hire which greatness gives to slaves and sycophants.

    With their authors in oblivion sunk Vain titles lie; the servile badges oft Of mean submission, not the meed of worth. Whoe'er amidst the sons Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue, Displays distinguish'd merit, is a noble Of nature's own creating. Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a duke? Many a Prince is worse, Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purse. How poor are all hereditary honours, Those poor possessions from another's deeds, Unless our own just virtues form our title, And give a sanction to our fond assumptions!

    Boast not these titles of your ancestors, Brave youths; they're their possessions, not your own: When your own virtues equall'd have their names, 'T will be but fair to lean upon their fames, For they are strong supporters; but, till then The greatest are but growing gentlemen. Superior worth your rank requires; For that, mankind reveres your sires; If you degenerate from your race, Their merit heightens your disgrace.

    E'en to the dullest peasant standing by, Who fasten'd still on him a wandering eye, He seem'd the master spirit of the land. Even to the delicacy of their hands There was resemblance, such as true blood wears. What boots it on the lineal tree to trace, Through many a branch, the founders of our raceTime-honoured chiefs-if, in their right, we give A loose to vice, and like low villains live?

    How shall we call those noble, who disgrace Their lineage, proud of an illustrious race? Who seek to shine by borrow'd lights alone, Nor with their fathers' glories blend their own? Whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it that, perchance, they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day.

    Full many mischiefs follow cruel wrath, Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife, Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scathe, Bitter despite, with rancour's rusty knife, And fretting grief-the enemy of life. Madness and anger differ but in this: This is short madness, that long anger is. My rage is not malicious; like a spark Of fire by steel enforc'd out of a flint, It is no sooner kindled, but extinct. O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world. Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Come not netween the dragon and his wrath.

    Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turn'd. Those hearts tbot start at once into a blaze, And open all tneir rage, like summer storms At once discharg'd, grow cool again and calm. When anger rushes unrestrain'd to action, Like a hot stepd it stumbles in its way: The man ot tnougnt strikes deepest, and strikes safest. Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend the vaulted skies; Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands, pr when lap-dogs, breathe their last; Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high, In glittering dust and painted fragments lie.

    From loveless youth to unrespected age, No passion gratified, except her rage. Of all bad things by which mankind are curs'd, Their own bad tempers surely are the worst. All furious as a favour'd child Balk'd of its wish; or, fiercer still, A woman piqued, who has her will.

    For his was not that blind, capricious rage, A word can kindle and a word assuage; But the deep working of a soul unmix'd With aught of pity, where its wrath had fix'd. His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last. The ocean lash'd to fury loud, Its high waves mingling with the cloud, Is peaceful, sweet serenity To anger's dark and troubled sea. Those eyes, that late were bright with joy, Glared now like lightning to destroy; And she with such resentment burn'd As only woman feels when scomr'd.

    But they do want the quick discerning power, Which doth in man the erring sense correct; Therefore the bee did suck the painted flower, And birds, of grapes the cunning shadow peck'd. The subtle dog scours, with sagacious nose, Along the field, and snuffs each breeze that blows; Against the wind he takes his prudent way, While the strong gale directs him to the prey.

    Now the warm scent assures the covey near; He treads with caution, and he pants with fear: Then close to ground in expectation lies, Till in the snare the fluttering covey rise. A colt, whose eyeballs flamed with ire, Elate with strength and youthful fire. The lion is, beyond dispute, Allow'd the most majestic brute; His valour and his generous mind Prove him superior of his kind.

    Had fate a kinder lot assign'd, And form'd me of the lap-dog kind, I then, in higher life employ'd, Had indolence and ease enjoy'd;. The wily fox remain'd, A subtle, pilfering foe, prowling around In midnight shades, and wakeful to destroy. Of all the brutes by nature form'd, The artful beaver best can bear the want Of vital air; yet, 'neath the whelming tide, He lives not long; but respiration needs At proper intervals. Let cavillers deny That brutes have reason; sure 't is something more, 'T is heaven directs, and stratagems inspire Beyond the short extent of human thought.

    The snappish cur Close at my heel with yelping treble flies. The hare, timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, And more unpitying man. And, scorning all the taming arts of man, The keen hyena, fellest of the fell. The lively, shining leopard, speckled o'er With many a spot, the beauty of the waste. He stands at bay, And puts his last faint refuge in despair; The big round tears run down his dappled face; He groans in anguish.

    The tiger darting fierce, Impetuous on the prey his eye hath doom'd. Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. They say he sits All day in contemplation of a statue With ne'er a nose; and dotes on the decays, With greater love than the self-loved Narcissus Did on his beauty. What toil did honest Curio take, What strict inquiries did he make, To get one medal wanting yet, And perfect all his Roman set!

    Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches, In antiquarian eyes surpassing riches: Rare is each crack'd, black, rotten, earthen dish, That held of ancient Rome the flesh and fish. Her snowy breast was bare to ready spoil Of hungry eyes. Neat, trimly drest, Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin new-reaped, Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest home. Drew from the deep Charybdis of his coat What seem'd a handkerchief, and forthwith blew His vocal nose. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

    Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel, Because his painted skin contents the eye? Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear. Her polish'd limbs Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. THOMSON'S Seasons, Let firm, well-hammer'd soles protect thy feet, Through freezing snows, and rain, and soaking sleet;Should the big last extend the sole too wide, Each stone will wrench th' unwary step aside; The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, Thy cracking joints unhinge, or ankle sprain; And when too small the modest shoes are worn, You '11 judge the seasons by your shooting corn.

    GAY'S Trivia. Nor should it prove thy less important care, To choose a proper coat for winter wear; Be thine of kersey firm, tho' small the cost; Then brave, unwet, the rain-unchill'd, the frost. GAY'S Trzvia. Let beaux their canes with amber tipt produce; Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. Imprudent men Heaven's choicest gifts profane; Thus some beneath their arm support the cane, The dirty point oft checks the careless pace, And muddy spots the clean cravat disgrace. Oh I may I never such misfortune meet! May no such vicious persons walk the street! GAY'S Twtia. Say, will the falcon stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?

    Admires the jay the insect's varying wings? Or, hears the hawk when Philomela sings? And even while Fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy? He had that grace, so rare in every clime, Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, A finish'd gentleman, from top to toe. But, next to dressing for a rout or ball, Undressing is a woe. Trust not the treason of those smiling looks, Until you have their guileful trains well tried, For they are like but unto golden hooks, That from the foolish fish their baits do hide.

    Why should the sacred character of virtue Shine on a villain's countenance? Ye powers! Why fix'd you not a brand on treason's front, That we might know t' avoid perfidious mortals? Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadow'd liv'ry of the burnish'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. A man may smile and smile, and be a villain. All that glitters is not gold, Gilded tombs do worms enfold. So the blue summit of some mountain height, Wrapt in gay clouds, deludes the distant sight; But as with gazing eyes we draw more near, Fades the false scene, and the rough rocks appear.

    He has, I know not what, Of greatness in his looks, and of high fate, That almost awes me. The gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, Contains the shining treasure of a soul, Resolv'd and brave. Tho' the fair rose with beauteous blush is crown'd, Beneath her fragrant leaves the thorn is found; The peach, that with inviting crimson blooms, Deep at the heart the cank'ring worm consumes. GAY'S Dione. POPE'S Moral Essays She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought, But never, never reach'd one generous thought; Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever.

    Your thief looks, in the crowd, Exactly like the rest, or rather better; T is only at the bar, or in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features. That this is but the surface of his soul, And that the depth is rich in better things. Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Masks hearts where grief has little left to learn; And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, In smiles that least befit, who wears them most. How little do they see what is, who frame Their hasty judgments upon that which seems.

    As a beam o'er the face of the water may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,. So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile, Tho' the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. Appearance may deceive thee -understand, A pure white glove may hide a filthy hand. Within the oyster's shell uncouth The purest pearl may bide:Trust me, you'll find a heart of truth Within that rough outside.

    Who will believe? Angel forms may often hide Spirits to the fiends allied. Think not, because the eye is bright, And smiles are laughing there, The heart that beats within is light, And free from pain and care. A blush may tinge the darkest cloud Ere Sol's last ray depart, And underneath the sunniest smile May lurk the saddest heart.

    Our stomachs Will make what's homely, savoury. He was a man of an unbounded stomach. Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression stareth in thine eyes, Upon thy back hangs ragged misery; The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law. Read over this, and after this,-and then To breakfast with what appetite you have. They would defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard thro' their nose.

    He bore A paunch of mighty bulk before, Which still he had a special care To keep well cramm'd with thrifty fare. For finer or fatter Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat, Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat. The tankards foam; and the strong table groans Beneath the smoking sirloin, stretch'd immense From side to side, in which, with desperate knife, They deep incisions make. Their various cares in one great point combine, The business of their lives-that is, to dine.

    The turnpike road to people's hearts, I find, Lies thro' their mouths, or I mistake mankind. With these he treats both commoners and quality, Who praise, where'er they go, his hospitality. Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork, That merciless fell, like tomahawks, to work! Famish'd people must be slowly nurst, And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. And when he look'd upon his watch again, He found how much old Time had been a winnerHe also found that he had lost his dinner.

    BYRON'S Don Juan, Nothing's more sure at moments to take hold Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow More tender, as we every day behold, Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul-the dinner bell! When dinner has oppress'd me, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. The big round dumpling rolling from the pot. The same stale viands serv'd up o'er and o'er, The stomach nauseate. Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep Over his country's wrongs, and, by his face, This seeming brow of justice, did he win The hearts of all that he did angle for.

    O, he sits high in all the people's hearts; And that, which would appear offence in us, His countenance, like richest alchymy, Will change to virtue, and to worthiness. Who most to shun or hate mankind pretend, Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend: Abstract what others feel, what others think, All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink.

    He spoke, and bow'd; with muttering jaws The wondering circle grinn'd applause. The noisy praise Of giddy crowds is changeable as winds; Still vehement, and still without a cause; Servant to change, and blowing in the tide Of swoln success; but veering with the ebb, It leaves the channel dry. Maidens wave Their 'kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy; While others, not so satisfied, unhorse The gilded equipage, and, turning loose His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

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    Oh popular applause! In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause. What if the popular breath should damn the sun In his meridian glory? The princely dome, the column and the arch, The sculptur'd marble, and the breathing gold. Here the architect Did not with curious skill a pile erect Of carved marble, touch, or porphyry, But built a house for hospitality; No sumptuous chimney-piece of shining stone Invites the stranger's eye to gaze upon, And coldly entertain his sight; but clear And cheerful flames cherish and warm him here.

    Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, The craz'd creation of misguided whim. The high embower'd roof, With antique pillars, massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. But this juggler Would think to chain my judgment, as mine eyes, Obtruding false rules prank'd in reason's garb. Enjoy thy gay wit and false rhetoric, That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence; Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced.

    Dogmatic jargon learnt by heart, Trite sentences, hard terms of art, To vulgar ears seems so profound, They fancy learning in the sound. GAY'S 'Fables. He'd undertake to prove, by force Of 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 and trustees.

    A man convinc'd against his will, Is of the same opinion still. Now with fine phrase, and foppery of tongue, More graceful action, and a smoother tone, The orator of fable and fair face Will steal on your brib'd hearts. In subtle sophistry's laborious forge. Its gaudy colours spreads in every place; The face of nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay 4. Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past, We find our tenets just the same at last.

    But as some muskets do contrive it, As oft to miss the mark they drive at, And, though well-aim'd at duck or plover, Bear wide, and kick their owners over,So fared our squire, whose reas'ning toil Would often on himself recoil, And so much injur'd more his side, The stronger arguments he apply'd. The self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostate of affection-he, who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence.

    He cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heav'nly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd. His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call " rigmarole. With temper calm and mild, And words of soften'd tone, He overthrows his neighbour's cause, And justifies his own. Vicksburg W'nig. With neat and rounded phrase He tricks the shapeless thought; Like hope of power, it charms to-day; To-morrow, it is nought.

    Vicksburg Whug. Make my breast Transparent as pure crystal, that the world, Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought My heart doth hold. Imperfect mischief! Thou, like the adder venomous and deaf, Hast stung the traveller; and when thou think'st To hide, the rustling leaves and bended grass Confess and point the path which thou hast crept. O, fate of fools! You talk to me in parables; You may have known that I'm no wordy man: Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves, Or fools, that use them when they want good sense. Honesty Needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.

    A man of sense can artifice disdain, As men of wealth may venture to go plain; I find the fool when I behold the screen, For 't is the wise man's interest to be seen. Will all Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clear from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making this green one, red. The great King of kings Hath in the table of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder; wilt thou then Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's?

    The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The most arch deed of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of. See-his face is black and full of blood; His eyeballs further out than when he lived, Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man; His hair uprear'd; his nostrils stretch'd with struggling; His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued. Blood, though it sleeps a time, yet never dies; The gods on murd'rers fix revengeful eyes.

    Is there a crime Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul Of men with more infernal hue, than damn'd Assassination? Cease, triflers; would you have me feel remorse, Leave me alone-nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeons, Speak to the murderer with the voice of solitude. Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. CowLA 'Tis hard, where dulness overrules, To keep good sense in crowds of fools; And we admire the man who saves His honesty in crowds of knaves.

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    Then must I plunge again into the crowd Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak. Then as we never met before, and never, It may be, may again encounter, why, I thought to cheer up this Like the stain'd web, that whitens in the sun, Grow pure by being purely shone upon. With wild surprise, As if to marble struck, devoid of sense, A stupid moment motionless she stood. He stood Pierc'd by severe amazement, hating life, Speechless and fix'd in all the death of woe. Were his eyes open? Yes, and his mouth too;Surprise has this effect, to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate, which eloquence slips through, As wide as if a long speech were to come.

    A war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, A lion, rous'd by heedless hound, A tyrant wak'd to sudden strife, By graze of ill-directed knife, Starts not to more convulsive life, Than he who heard that vow display'd. How many great ones may remember'd be, Which in their days most famously did flourish, Of whom no words we hear, no signs now see, But as things wip'd out with a sponge do perish, Because they living cared not to cherish No gentle wits, through pride or covetize, Which might their names for ever memorize!

    He that writes, Or makes a feast, more certainly invites His judges than his friends; there 's not a guest But will find something wanting, or ill-drest. Much thou hast said, which I know when And where thou stol'st from other men; Whereby 't is plain thy light and gifts, Are all but plagiary shifts.

    Authors are judg'd by strange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools; Yet sure the best are most severely fated, For fools are only laugh'd at-wits are hated. Y OUNG. None but an author knows an author's cares, Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. To let it out in books of all sorts, Folios, quartos, large and small sorts.

    One hates an author that's all author, fellows In foolscap uniform turn'd up with ink; So very anxious, clever, fine and jealous, One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs, e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. Perceivest thou not the process of the year, How the four seasons in four forms appear?

    Like human life in every shape they wear: Spring first, like infancy, shoots out her head, With milky juice requiring to be fed Proceeding onward, whence the year began, The summer grows adult, and ripens into man Autumn succeeds, a sober, tepid age, Nor froze with fear, nor boiling into rage; Last, winter creeps along with tardy pace, Sour is his front, and furrow'd is his face. See, winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train; Vapours, and clouds, and storms. As yet the trembling year is unconfin'd, And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze, Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets Deform the day delightless.

    THoMsoN's Seasons. But see, the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round Embrown. From bright'ning fields of ether, fair disclos'd, Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes; In pride of youth, and felt thro' nature's depth, He comes, attended by the sultry hours, And ever-fanning breezes on his way.

    O winter! I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art. Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer ling'ring blooms delay'd. And winter, lingering, chills the lap of spring. Fain would my muse the flowing treasure sing, And humble glories of the youthful spring.

    The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, Health in the gale, and freshness in the stream. The merry May hath pleasant hours, and dreamily they glide, As if they floated, like the leaves, upon a silver tide; The trees are full of crimson buds, the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to music, like a tune with pleasant words. The keen north-west, that heaps the drifted snow. The sultry summer past, September comes, Soft twilight of the slow declining year, More sober than the buxom, blooming May, And therefore less the favourite of the world; But dearest month of all to pensive minds.

    And the meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. The dead leaves strew the forest walk, And wither'd are the pale wild flowers; The frost hangs black'ning on the stalk, The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. GOODRICH What scenes of delight, what sweet visions she brings Of freshness, of gladness and mirthOf fair sunny glades where the buttercup springs, Of cool, gushing fountains, of rose-tinted wings, Of birds, bees and blossoms, all beautiful things, Whose brightness rejoices the earth!

    WELBY The bleak wind whistles -snow-showers, far and near, Drift without echc to the whitening ground; Autumn hath past away, and, cold and drear, Winter stalks in, with frozen mantle bound. First budding Spring appears, next Summer's heat, Then Autumn's fruits, then Winter's cold and sleet. Shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes? And sell the mighty space of our large honours, For so much trash as may be grasped thus?

    I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. The miser lives alone, abhorr'd by all, Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scaped, But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts That live about him; never has commerce With any, but to ruin them. Of Age's avarice I cannot see What colour, ground, or reason there can be; Is it not folly, when the way we ride Is short, for a long voyage to provide? To avarice some title Youth may own, To reap in autumn what a spring had sown; And, with the providence of bees or ants, Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants.

    But dge scarce sows, ere death stands by to reap, And to a stranger's hand transfer the heap.

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    Who thinketh to buy villany with gold, Shall ever find such faith so bought-so sold. But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods o'er his gold, and griping still at more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor. Let bravoes, then, whose blood is spilt, Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.

    BLAIR'S Grave Who, lord of millions, trembles for his store, And fears to give a farthing to the poor; Proclaims that penury will be his fate, And, scowling, looks on charity with hate. The love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies collecting lumber in the rear. Oh gold! Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable, Which holds fast other pleasures great and small.

    A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest soul. Who loves no music but the dollar's clink. The kindly throbs that other men control, Ne'er melt the iron of the miser's soul; Thro' life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends. And he, across whose brain scarce dares to creep Aught but thrift's parent pair-to get-to keep. Mammon's close-link'd bonds have bound him, Self-imposed, and seldom burst; Though heaven's waters gush'd around him, He would pine with earth's poor thirst. Come and trip it as you you go On the light fantastic toe.

    Methought it was the sound Of riot and ill-managed merriment, Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds. Alike all ages; dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze; And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes that spoke again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. On with the dance! No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

    Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands, That mingle theirs in well-according bands; It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, And make age smile, and dream itself to youth, And youth forget such hours were past on earth,So springs th' exulting bosom to that mirth. The music, and the banquet, and the wine,The garlands, the rose-odours, and the flowers,The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornamentsThe white arms, and the raven hair-the braids And bracelets When gas and beauty's blended rays Set hearts and ball-rooms in a blaze; Or spermaceti's light reveals More "inward bruises" than it heals; In flames each belle her victim kills, And " sparks fly upward" in quadrilles.

    Such grace and such beauty! And turn from gentle Juliet's woe, To count the twirls of Fanny Ellsler's toe. The bright and youthful dancers meet, With laughing lips and winged feet; And golden locks come flashing by, Like sudden sunshine thro' the sky. And fairy forms, now here, now there, Hover'd like children of the air. Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, Of the dancers and dresses, and who was the belle; But each was so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away, and the dawn caught them there.

    Some natural tears they dropt, but wip'd them soon: The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They hand in hand, with wand'ring steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way. When I think of my own native land, In a moment 1 seem to be there; But alas! LEWIS Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Those scenes which I am doom'd no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace-my soul's tormentorAnd turn each pleasure past to present woe.

    I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. Too early lost, alas! Home of my heart and friends, adieu! Ling'ring beside some foreign strand, How oft shall I remember you! Who, forthwith, from the glitt'ring staff unfurl'd Th' imperial ensign, which, full high advanc'd, Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind.

    As long as patriot valour's arm Shall win the battle's prize, That star shall beam triumphantly, That Eagle seek the skies! Flag of the free heart's only home, By angel hands to valour given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven! For ever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! DRI E. Unto the ground she cast her modest eye, And, ever and anon, with rosy red, The bashful blush her snowy cheeks did dye. Maidens in modesty say No, to that Which they would have the profferers construe, Aye.

    Confusion thrill'd me then, and secret joy, Fast throbbing, stole its treasures from my heart, And, mantling upward, turn'd my face to crimson. From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks, Ten thousand little loves and graces spring, To revel in the roses RowE's Tamerlane. As lamps burn silent with unconscious light, So modest ease in beauty shines most bright; Unaiming charms with rays resistless fall, And she, who means no mischief, does it all. He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd.

    Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, Varying her cheeks, by turn, with white and red; The driving colours, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush, and fade away. The modest matron, and the blushing maid. The bashful virgin's sidelong look of love. That modest grace subdu'd my soul, That chastity of look which seems to hang, A veil of purest light, o'er all her beauties, And by forbidding most inflames desire.

    I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn, and undeserv'd disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face, Of needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace. True modesty is a discerning grace, And only blushes in the proper place; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks thro' fear, Where 't is a shame to be asham'd t' appear. Playful blushes, that seem'd nought But luminous escapes of thought.

    I know a cheek whose blushes, As they trembling come and go, I could gaze upon for ever, If it did not pain thee so. And so the blush is form'd, and flies, Nor owns reflection's calm control, It comes, it deepens-fades, and dies, A gush of feeling from the soul. Modesty's the charm That coldest hearts can quickest warm; Which all our best affections gains, And, gaining, ever still retains. So brave returning, with his brandish'd blade, He to the carle himself again addrest, And struck at him so sternly that he made An open passage through his riven breast, And half the steel behind his back did rest.

    It was a pity-so it was, That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good brave fellow has destroy'd. Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war. In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in his ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger.

    Now one's the better-then the other best, Both tugging to be victor, breast to breast; Yet neither conqueror or is conquered, So is the equal poise of this fell-war. With many a stiff thwack, many a bang, Hard crabtree and, old iron rang; While none who saw them could divine To which side conquest would incline. Ah me! For tho' Dame Fortune seem to smile, And ieer upon him for a while,. Those who in quarrels interpose, Must often wipe a bloody nose. The broomstick o'er her head she waves; She sweats, she stamps, she puffs, she raves;The sneaking cur before her flies; She whistles, calls-fair speech she tries.

    These nought avail. Her choler burns; The fist and cudgel threat by turns; With hasty stride she presses near; He slinks aloof, and howls with fear. He drew the sword, but knew its rage to charm, And loved peace beat when he was forc'd to arm; Unmov'd with all the glittering pomp of power, He took with joy, but laid it down with more. Nations with nations mixt confus'dly die, And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie. Me glory summons to the martial scene; The field of combat is the sphere for men. Wheie heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger, and the first in fame.

    Rash, fruitless war, from wanton glory wag'd, Is only splendid murder. Is death more cruel from a private dagger Than in the field, from murdering swords of thousands? Or does the number slain make slaughter glorious? War is of use to human kind; For ever and anon, when you have pass'd A few dull years in peace and propagation, The world is overstock'd with fools, and wants A pestilence at least, if not a hero. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steeds to battle driven, And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery. Their clamours rend the hills around, And earth re-bellows with the sound; And many a groan increased the din From broken nose and battered shin.

    And cover'd o'er with knobs and pains Each void receptacle for brains. One murder marks the assassin's odious name, But millions damn the hero into fame. And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard, And the loud cannon peal'd its hoarsest strains. Al that the mind would shrink from of excesses, All that the body perpetrates of bad, All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses, All that the devil would do, if run stark madWas here let loose BYRON'S Don Juan. They form-unite-charge-waver-all is lost! The death-shot hissing from afar, The shock, the shout, the groan of war.

    Theirs the strife, That neither spares nor speaks for life. But when all is past, it is humbling to tread O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, And see worms of the earth and fowls of the air, And beasts of the forest, all gathering there; All regarding man as their prey, All rejoicing in his decay. The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood. And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore.

    And slaughter heap'd on high its weltering ranks. Battle's magnificently stern array. In vain he did whate'er a chief may do, To check the headlong fury of that crew; In vain their stubborn ardour he would tameThe hand that kindles cannot quench the flame. Not in the conflict havoc seeks delightHis day of mercy is the day of fight; But when the field is fought, the battle won, Tho' drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun.

    Waved her dread pinion to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn. From rank to rank their vollied thunder flew. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wide wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like sheets of flame in midnight pall. The soldier retreats to his quarters, the grave, Under Death, whom he owns his commander-in-chief;No more he'll turn out with the ready relief. Now lies he low-no more to hear The victor's shout or clashing steel; No more of war's rude cares to bear, No more kind sympathy to feel.

    No more he charges with the host, The thickest of the battle-field; No more to join in victory's boast, No more to see the vanquish'd yield. Richmond Republican. The bursting shell, the gateway wrench'd asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, The observ'd of all observers. Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

    All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth. Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown In courts, and feasts, and high solemnities, Where most may wonder at the workmanship. It is for homely features to keep home; They had their name thence; coarse complexions, And cheeks of sorry grain, will serve to ply The sampler, and to tease the housewife's wool.

    What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn? Virtue can brook the thoughts of age That lasts the same through every stage, Though you by time must suffer more Than ever woman lost before! PoPE's Essay on Criticism.

    remembrance and gratitude a selection of poems and writings Manual

    Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. I long not for the cherries on the tree, So much as those which on a lip I see; And more affection bear I to the rose, That in a cheek, than in a garden grows. Grace was in her steps, heaven in her eyes, In every gesture dignity and love. Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shape, her features, Seem to be drawn by Love's own hand.

    And those who paint them truest, praise them most. All that painting can express, Or youthful poets fancy when they love. RowE's Fair Penitent. What's female beauty but an air divine, Through which the mind's all gentle graces shine? They, like the sun, irradiate all between; The body charms, because the soul is seen. YoUNo Beauty! To make the cunning artless, tame the rude, Subdue the haughty, shake the undaunted soul:These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty.

    But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowing of an innocent heart. There was a soft and pensive grace, A cast of thought upon her face, That suited well the forehead high, The eyelash dark, and downcast eye; The mild expression spoke a mind In duty firm, compos'd, resign'd. For faultless was her form as beauty's queen, And every winning grace that love demands, With mild attemper'd dignity was seen Play o'er each lovely limb, and deck her angel mien. She was a form of life and light, That, seen, became a part of sight; And rose where'er I turn'd my eye, The morning star of memory.

    So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breathBut beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue, which haunts it to the tomb. Fair as the first that fell of womankind. So bright the tear in beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry; So sweet the blush of bashfulness, Even pity scarce can wish it less.

    Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The might, the majesty of loveliness? BYRoN's Bride of. Such around her shone The nameless charms unmarl'd by her alone: The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmoniz'd the whole, And, Oh!