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WHAT Heaven on me bestows, like Heaven in bounty too let me bestow,

And in my prosperous day around let streams of ceaseless favour flow,

Flow ever from the mighty sea of everlasting Charity.

ANY one may command his tongue; but it is only by long habit that the countenance can be brought under controul. The latter is, however, even more necessary, in many cases, than the former; because words can seldom be misunderstood, but of what various interpretations is not a look susceptible?

OH, Honour! frail as Life, thy fellow flower!
Cherish'd and watch'd, and hum'rously esteem'd,
Then worn for short adornments of an hour;
And is, when lost, no more than Life, redeem'd.

DAVENANT.

THOUGH grief sometimes, conspiring with the night,
On wounded hearts disconsolation throws,
Yet comfort dawning with the morning light,
Smootheth the sullen furrows of the brows,
And with its virgin beams of sweetness dries
The briny moisture of the clouded eyes.

DR. BEAUMONT.

THOUGH lost to all besides, the dead still live to those by whom they were injured.

How many lift the head, look gay, and smile,
Against their consciences? And this we know,
Yet, knowing, disbelieve; and try again

What we have tried, and struggle with conviction :
Each new experience gives the former credit,
And reverend grey Threescore is but a voucher,
That Thirty told us true.

YOUNG.

THE OCEAN.

BEAUTIFUL, Sublime, and glorious,
Mild, majestic, foaming, free :
Over time itself victorious,

Image of eternity.

Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee,

See thy surface ebb and flow;

Yet attempt not to explore thee

In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendours steep thee
With the rainbow's glowing grace,
Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
"Tis but for a moment's space.

Earth-her valleys and her mountains,
Mortal man's behest obey;

Thy unfathomable fountains

Scoff his search, and scorn his sway.

Such art thou-stupendous Ocean!
But, if overwhelmed by thee,
Can we think without emotion

What must thy CREATOR be?

ENTHUSIASM is the genius of sincerity.

BARTON.

HE that is careless of his fame is not fond of his integrity.

FELTHAM.

I THOUGHT of thee, my partner and my guide,

As being past away,-Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

I see what was, and is, and will abide;

Still glides the stream, and shall not cease to glide,
The form remains, the function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish ;-be it so!

Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as tow'rd the silent tomb we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendant

dower,

We feel that we are greater than we know.

WORDSWORTH.

THINGS Out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing.

SENSIBILITY Would be a good portress, if she had but one hand: with her right she opens the door to pleasure, but with her left, to pain.

THE man resolv'd, and steady to his trust,
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just,

May the rude rabble's insolence despise,

Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries;
The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles,

And the stern brow and the harsh voice defies,
And with superior greatness smiles.

WHEN the tide of family affection runs smooth and unbroken, it bears the bark of happiness securely

on its bosom.

MRS. OPIE.

THIS only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Th' unknown are better than ill known.
Rumour can ope' the grave.

Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice of friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night.
My house a cottage, more

Than palace, and should fitting be

For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space;

For he that runs it well twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, that happy state,
I would not fear nor wish my fate,

But boldly say each night,

To-morrow let my sun his beams display,

Or in clouds hide them: I have lived to-day.

COWLEY.

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