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To touch the sword with conscientious awe,
Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw;
To sheath it in the peace-restoring close
With joy beyond what victory bestows;
Blest country where these Kingly glories shine!
Blest England, if this happiness be thine!

COWPER.

HUMAN life hath not a surer friend, nor many times a greater enemy, than Hope. 'Tis the miserable man's God, which in the hardest gripe of calamity, never fails to yield him beams of comfort. 'Tis the presumptuous man's Devil, which leads him awhile in a smooth way, and then makes him break his neck on the sudden. Hope is to man as a bladder to a learning swimmer; it keeps him from sinking in the bosom of the waves, and by that help he may attain the exercise but yet it many times makes him venture beyond his height, and then, if that breaks, or a storm rises, he drowns without recovery. How many would die, did not Hope sustain them! How many have died by hoping too much! This wonder we may find in Hope, that she is both a flatterer and a true friend. Like a valiant captain in a losing battle, it is ever encouraging man, and never leaves him till they both expire together. While breath pants in the dying body, there is Hope fleeting in the waving soul. 'Tis almost as the air by which the mind does live.

FELTHAM.

How beautiful the setting Sun
Reposes o'er the wave!

Like Virtue, life's drear warfare done,
Descending to the grave;

Yet smiling with a brow of love,
Benignant, pure, and kind,
And blessing, ere she soars above,
The realms she leaves behind.

MOIR.

Of all the prejudices in direct opposition to the established law, the point of Honour is perhaps the most ancient, and the most difficult to be overcome, because it is in some sort identified with the national character. Of what importance is it, in reality, that the Law forbids, under pain of death, that which Honour commands under pain of shame, in a warlike nation, where education makes cowardice a crime, and contempt a dreadful punishment?

RODERICK alone appear'd

Unmoved and calm; for now the Royal Goth
Had offered his accepted sacrifice;

And therefore in his soul he felt that peace
Which follows painful duty well performed-
Perfect and heavenly peace. The peace of God.

SOUTHEY.

THERE is not so agonizing a feeling in the whole catalogue of human suffering, as the first conviction that the heart of the being whom we most tenderly love, is estranged from us.

LOVE's like a torch which, if secur'd from blasts,
Will faintlier burn, but then it longer lasts;
Expos'd to storms of jealousy and doubt,
The blaze grows greater, but 'tis sooner out.

WALSH.

No effect is ever lost, and often the little accidents which we think unlucky, tend to the most fortunate circumstances of our lives,

AND press'd her hand-that lingering press
Of hands that for the last time sever;
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness,

When that hold breaks, is dead for ever.
And yet to her this sad caress

Gives hope-so fondly hope can err !

'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess

Their happy flight's dear harbinger;

'Twas warmth-assurance-tenderness

"Twas anything but leaving her.

U

MOORE.

How happy is he born or taught, That serveth not another's will, Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill:

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Unty'd unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath:

Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumours freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat, Whose state can neither flatt'rers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great :

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertain the harmless day
With a religious book or friend :

This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

THE wing of Time passes lightly over the cheek and the brow, unconscious of the ravages of misery and ungovernable feelings. It is only where the passions have left their strongly marked traces, that Time lends his aid to indent them still more deeply.

WHO swerves from innocence, who makes divorce
Of that serene companion-a good name,
Recovers not his loss; but walks with shame,
With doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse.
And ofttimes he, who, yielding to the force
Of chance temptation, ere his journey end,
From chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend,
In vain shall rue the broken intercourse.

WORDSWORTH.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of man :

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In fortune's varying colours drest :
Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance,
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

GRAY.

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