He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds." O THOU who driest the mourner's tear, If when deceived and wounded here, The friends who in our sunshine live, And he who has but tears to give But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, When joy no longer soothes and cheers, A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting thro' the gloom, A peace branch from above. Then sorrow touch'd by Thee grows bright, As darkness shows us worlds of light AND if you dare!-Is that The voice of manhood? Honest, if you dare! The gen'rous heart does more; will dare do all MURPHY. By the force of a tyrant custom, which is misnamed a point of honour, the duellist kills his friend whom he loves, and the judge condems the duellist, while he approves his behaviour. Shame is then the greatest of all evils; what avail laws when death only attends the breach of them, and shame obedience to them? ADDISON. BLEST with that sweet simplicity of thought, MRS. BARBAULD. WHATEVER enables genius to execute well, will enable taste to criticise justly. BLAIR. THERE is a rose-lip'd seraph sits on high, To mark the voice of Penitence-to catch MASON. I LOVE the ivy mantled tower Rock'd by the storms of thousand years; And lent to man the arms of Heaven. I love the organ's joyous swell, And hear the still small voice of peace. AH! noblest minds Sink soonest into ruin, like a tree That with the weight of its own golden fruitage Is bent down to the dust. H. NEELE. A PROMISE may be broke; Nay, start not at it-Tis an hourly practice; 'Tis the wise man's freedom, and the fool's restraint; It is the ship in which the knave embarks, Who rigs it with the tackle of his conscience, HAVARD. He experienced that nervous agitation, to which brave men as well as cowards are subject; with this difference, that the one sinks under it, like the vine under the hail-storm, and the other collects his energies to shake it off, as the cedar of Lebanon is said to elevate its boughs to disperse the snow which accumulates upon them. WALTER SCOTT. EVERY crime Has, in the moment of its perpetration, COLERIDGE. BURNS' EPITAPH ON HIMSELF. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, ower hot for rule, Let him draw near; And ower this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowd among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear Wild as the wave; Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave. |