Self is the medium least refin'd of all,
Through which Opinion's searching beam can fall;
And passing there, the clearest, steadiest ray Will tinge its light and turn its line astray.
Moore. How cold he hearkens to some bankrupt's woe, Nods his wise head, and cries—“I told you so!" Sprague's Poems.
Ye may twine the living flowers Where the living fountains glide, And beneath the rosy bowers Let the selfish man abide;
And the birds upon the wing,
And the barks upon the wave, Shall no sense of freedom bring,—
All is slavery to the slave:
Mammon's close-link'd chains have bound him, Self-impos'd and seldom burst;
Though heaven's waters gush around him, He would pine with earth's poor thirst. Mrs. Hale's Poems.
The craven's fear is but selfishness, Like his merriment.
O why are farmers made so coarse, Or clergy made so fine?
A kick, that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell, Till wak'd and kindled by the master's spell; And feeling hearts-touch them but lightly-pour A thousand melodies unheard before!
Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art? Can genius shield the vulnerable heart? Ah no! Where bright imagination reigns, The fine-wrought spirit feels acuter pains; Where glow exalted sense and taste refin'd, There keener anguish rankles in the mind; There feeling is diffus'd through every part, Thrills in each nerve, and lives in all the heart; And those whose gen'rous souls each tear would keep
From others' eyes, are born themselves to weep. Hannah More. Oh! life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
Whittier's Poems. And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.
This power's sense, which from abroad doth bring The colour, taste, and touch, and scent and sound, The quantity and shape of every thing Within earth's centre, or heaven's circle found. Sir John Davis.
And though things sensible be numberless, But only five the senses' organs be; And in those five all things their forms express, Which we can touch, taste, feel, or hear, or see. Sir John Davis.
Something there is more needful than expense, And something previous e'en to taste-'tis sense: Good sense which only is the gift of heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.
The blight of some familiar finger- Like flowers which but in secret bloom, Where aye the shelter'd shadows linger, And which, beneath the noon's hot ray, Would fold their leaves and fade away.
When knaves and fools combin'd o'er all prevail | The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
When justice halts, and right begins to fail, E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of shame - unknown to others' fears. More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. Byron's English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.
His folded flock secure, the shepherd home Hies, merry-heartrd; and by turns relieves The ruddy milk-maid of her brimming pail; The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart, Unknowing what the joy-mixt anguish means, Sincerely loves, by that best language shown Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. Thomson's Seasons.
And leads me to the mountain-brow, Where sits the shepherd on the grassy turf, Inhaling, healthful, the descending sun. Around him feeds his many bleating flock, Of various cadence; and his sportive lambs, This way and that convolv'd, in friskful glee, Their frolics play. Thomson's Seasons. The house-wife waits to roll her fleecy stores, With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round. One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd, Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays Her smiles, sweet beaming, on her shepherd king; While the glad circle round them yield their souls To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. Thomson's Seasons.
Frequent in the sounding hall, they wake The rural gambol. Rustic mirth goes round; The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart, Easily pleas'd; the long loud laugh, sincere; The kiss, snatch'd hasty from the sidelong maid, On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep; The leap, the slap, the haul; and, shook to notes Of native music, the respondent dance. Thus jocund fleets with them the winter night. Thomson's Seasons.
The homely villager, the drudge of life, Who eats but as he toils, is happier far: No self-division, bosom anarchy, Disturbs his hours; thoughtless he labours on, Nor is at leisure to be wretched.
Your ships are not well mann'd: Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people Ingross'd by swift impress.
Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra.
Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water, which they beat, to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes.
Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra.
Suppose that you have seen
The well-appointed king at Hampton pier Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning, Play with your fancies; and in them behold, Upon the hempen tackle, ship-boys climbing: Hear the shrill whistle, which doth order give To sounds confus'd: behold the threaden sails, Borne with th' invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea, Breasting the lofty surge.
Five hundred souls in one instant of dread
Are hurried o'er the deck;
And fast the miserable ship
Becomes a lifeless wreck.
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,
Her planks are torn asunder,
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
And down comes her mast with a reeling shock, Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And a hideous crash like thunder,
Her sails are draggled in the brine That gladden'd late the skies,
And her pendant that kiss'd the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies.
Oh! many a dream was in the ship An hour before her death;
And strives to strangle him before he die. And first one universal shriek there rush'd, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, Save the wild wind and the remorseless clash Wilson. Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
And sights of home with sighs disturb'd The sleepers' long drawn breath. Instead of the murmur of the sea The sailor heard the humming-tree Alive through all its leaves, The hum of the spreading sycamore That grows before his cottage door, And the swallow's song in the eaves. His arms enclos'd a blooming boy, Who listen'd with tears of sorrow and joy To the dangers his father had pass'd; And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled, As she look'd on the father of her child, Return'd to her heart at last.
The two proud sisters of the sea, In glory and in doom! Well may the eternal waters be
Their broad, unsculptur'd tomb! The wind that rings along the wave,
The clear, unshadow'd sun,
Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave,—
Their last green wreath is won! No stranger-hand their banners furl'd, No victor's shout they heard, Unseen, above them ocean curl'd,
Save by its own pale bird; The gnashing billows heav'd and fell; Wild shriek'd the midnight gale; Far, far beneath the morning swell Were pennant, spar, and sail!
O. W. Holmes.-The Wasp and the Hornet.
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