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Yes! she will wake again, Although her glowing limbs are motionless, And silent those sweet lips,

Once breathing eloquence

That might have soothed a tiger's rage,
Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror.
Her dewy eyes are closed,

And on their lids, whose texture fine

Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath,
The baby sleep is pillowed:

Her golden tresses shade

The bosom's stainless pride,

Curling like tendrils of the parasite

Around a marble column.

SHELLEY.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wave that chafes the flood,
Or bubble which on water stood;
Even such is Man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in and paid to-night;
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past-the man forgot.

BEAUMONT.

LIFE is continually ravaged by invaders ;—one steals away an hour, and another a day; one conceals the robbery by hurrying us into business, another by lulling us with amusements. The depredation is continued through a thousand vicissitudes of tumult and tranquillity, till having lost all, we can lose no more. To put every man in possession of his own time, and rescue the day from a succession of usurpers, is beyond hope; yet, perhaps, some stop might be put to this unmerciful persecution, if all would seriously reflect, that whoever pays a visit that is not desired, or talks longer than the hearer is willing to attend, is guilty of an injury which he cannot repair, and takes away that which he cannot give.

JOHNSON.

O soden wo, that ever art successour

To worldly blis! spreint is with bitternesse
Th'ende of the joye of our worldly labour:
Wo occupieth the fyn of our gladnesse.
Herken this counseil for thy sikernesse,
Upon thy glade day have in thy minde,
The unware wo of harm that cometh behinde.

CHAUCER.

NEVER write on a subject, without having first read yourself full on it; and never read on a subject, till you have thought yourself hungry on it.

J. P. RICHTER.

SINCE trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can save or serve, but all may please;
Oh! let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
Large bounties to restore we wish in vain,

But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With power to grace them or, to crown with health,
Our little lot denies; but Heaven decrees

To all, the gift of minist'ring to ease

The gentle offices of patient love;

The mild forbearance at another's fault;

The taunting word, suppress'd as soon as thought:
On these Heaven bade the bliss of life depend,
And crush'd ill-fortune when it made a friend.

If there be any suffering which more than another claims compassion, but receives it least, it is that mental misery occasioned by the consciousness of possessing powers, which, not meeting with proportionate external excitements to action, oppress, instead of invigorating, the mind, and render it the prey of wretchedness, apparently of its own creation. Beings thus organized, uninterested in the passing trifles of the hour, move gloomily through life; alternately the victims of apathy or imitation ; regarded as visionaries or misanthropes, beheld

with wonder and dislike,-that species of dislike which the pride of human nature always induces it to feel towards whatever it cannot comprehend. But present before them objects of pursuit adequate to their desires,-awaken their bosom hopes,-rouse the master-spring of their passions,-touched with the spear of Ithuriel, their giant forms spring from the earth, new life is poured through their frames, new energies displayed in their actions; while the world beholds and confesses, with surprise, a metamorphosis which defies its comprehension.

How vainly seek

The selfish for that happiness denied

To aught but virtue! Blind and harden'd they
Who hope for peace amid the storms of care,
Who covet power they know not how to use,
And sigh for pleasure they refuse to give;
Madly they frustrate still their own designs :
Pining regrets and vain repentances,
Disease, disgust, and lassitude, pervade
Their valueless and miserable lives.

PREVALENT as every species of curiosity is among mankind, there is none which has so powerful an influence over every man, as the desire of knowing what the world may think of him. There is none, the gratification of which is so eagerly desired, or, in general, so heartily repented of.

HONOUR, my lord, is much too proud to catch
At every slender twig of nice distinctions.
These for the unfeeling vulgar may do well:
But those whose souls are by the nicer rule
Of virtuous Delicacy only sway'd,

Stand at another bar than that of laws.

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;

And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be;
There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.

Young flowers, and an evergreen tree,
May spring from the spot of thy rest :

But nor cypress, nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?

BYRON.

STEADFASTNESS is a noble quality, but unguided by knowledge or humility, it becomes rashness.

SWARTZ.

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