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WHEN we are sick, where can we turn for succour,
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a Mother?

JOANNA BAILLIE.

LOKE who that is most vertuous alway,
Prive and apart, and most entendeth ay
To do the gentil dedes that he can,
And take him for the gretest gentilman.

CHAUCER.

To subdue th' unconquerable mind,
To make one reason have the same effect
Upon all apprehensions: to force this
Or that man, to think just as I do ;—
Impossible! unless souls, which differ
Like human faces, were alike in all.

ROWE.

Ir is unjust and absurd of persons advancing in years, to expect of the young that confidence should come all and only on their side: the human heart, at whatever age, opens only to the heart that opens in return.

MISS EDGEWORTH.

PARTING.

OH! who can tell, save those whose hearts have known, And wept o'er bitter partings of their own,

How slowly wears the solitary day,

When those we fondly love are far away;

How vain each care our sorrows to beguile,

How cold, how sickening, Pleasure's fairest smile,
How clings the heart to all that once has been,
Each look of fondness, each remember'd scene:
Oh! in that sullen loneliness of soul,

What frenzied thoughts will o'er the bosom roll!
Love, Fear, Suspicion mingle wildly there,
And the dark bodings of conceal'd Despair;
Whilst Memory's visions crowd the rayless gloom,
And Hope looks eager only to the tomb !

IN some sad hour, by transient grief opprest,
Ah! let not vain reflection wound your breast;
For Memory, then, to happier objects blind,
Though once the friend, the traitor of the mind,
Life's varied sorrows studious to explore,
Turns the sad volume of its sufferings o'er.

Still to the distant prospect stretch your eye,
Pass the dim cloud, and view the bright'ning sky,
On Hope's kind wing, more genial climes survey;
Let Fancy join, but Reason guide your way,
For Fancy, still to tender woes inclin❜d,

May soothe the heart, but misdirects the mind.

LANGHORNE.

CHARITY! decent, modest, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Knows with just reins and gentle hand to guide,
Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride.
Not soon provoked, she easily forgives,
And much she suffers as she much believes:
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives,
She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives;
Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even,
And opens in each heart a little Heaven.

'Tis ever thus

With noble minds; if chance they slide to folly, Remorse stings deeper; and relentless conscience Pours more of gall into the bitter cup

Of their severe repentance.

MASON.

LIKE the gale that sighs along
Beds of Oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours.
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in music's breath.

MOORE.

THAT mind must surely err, whose narrow scope
Confines Religion to a place or clime;

A Power unknown, that actuates the world,
Whose eye is just, whose ev'ry thought is wisdom,
Regards alone the tribute of the heart.

Pride in his awful sight shrinks back appall'd;
Humility is eldest born of virtue,

And claims her birth-right at the throne of Heaven.

MURPHY.

DARE to be what you are, is a rule, which, if observed, would secure to men that happiness, of which the greater part never see any thing but the phantom, embracing the cloud in the place of the Goddess.

KNOX.

How dreadfully delightful 'tis to lose
The dazzled eye in yonder wide expanse,
Where, round ten thousand fonts of light
Myriads of worlds roll ceaseless ;—all obeying,
And all declaring in their measured orbs,
That universal Spirit which informs,

Pervades, and actuates the wondrous whole.

BELLER.

AN inconstant man is despicable; a faithless man is

base.

BLAIR.

WE'RE taught, indeed, to endure

What Heaven's chastising hand shall lay upon us.
But can it be, while this frail flesh confines us,
While the imprison'd soul participates
Whate'er its weak companion undergoes?
Ere we can reach perfection, we must shake
The body off. Then the expanding soul,
Pluming her wings, may take her airy way
Thro' yonder worlds of light, till she arrives
Where the eternal source of all, inhabits,
And treads th' infinity of boundless space.

MARSH.

THERE is this of good in real evils, they deliver us, while they last, from the petty despotism of all that were imaginary.

WHAT IS LIFE?

AND what is Life ?-An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning-sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream-

Its length ?-a minute's pause, a moment's thought:
And happiness?—a bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

And what is Hope?-the puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret of its gem,-and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

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