6.

Our sins, like to our shadows,

When our day's in its glory, scarce appear;
Towards our evening, how great and monstrous!

SUCKLING.

7. How guilt, once harbour'd in the conscious breast, Intimidates the brave, degrades the great!

8. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;
But, seen too oft, familiar to the face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

DR. JOHNSON.

POPE'S Essay on Man.

9. Where, where, for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

10. Ah me! from real happiness we stray,
By vice bewilder'd; vice, which always leads,
However fair at first, to wilds of wo.

THOMSON'S Agamemnon.

11. Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied words of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

12. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape The fascination of thy magic gaze?

13.

A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,

And mould to every taste thy dear, delusive shape!

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

To what gulfs

A single deviation from the track

Of human duties leads!

BYRON'S Sardanapalus.

14. Thou need'st not answer; thy confession speaks, Already redd'ning in thy guilty cheeks.

BYRON'S Corsair.

1. The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes, night and day too, like the sky:
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness, and destruction, as on high;
But when it hath been scorch'd and pierc'd and riven,
Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye

Pours forth, at last, the heart's blood turn'd to tears.

2. To me she gave her heart-that all

BYRON'S Don Juan.

Which tyranny cannot enthral.

BYRON'S Giaour.

3. Worm-like 't was trampled, adder-like aveng'd.

BYRON'S Corsair.

4. His heart was all on honour bent,

He could not stoop to love;

No lady in the land had power

His frozen heart to move.

5. The flush of youth soon passes from the face,
The spells of fancy from the mind depart;
The form may lose its symmetry and grace,—
But time can claim no victory o'er the heart.

6.

That heart, methinks,

MRS. DINNIES.

Were of strange mould, which kept no cherish'd print
Of earlier, happier times, when life was fresh,
And love and innocence made holiday.

7. I am not old-tho' Time has set

His signet on my brow,

And some faint furrows there have met,
Which care may deepen now:-
For in my heart a fountain flows,
And round it pleasant thoughts repose,
And sympathies and feelings high
Spring like the stars on evening sky.

HILLHOUSE.

PARK BENJAMIN.

8. Honour to him, who, self-complete and brave,
In scorn can carve his pathway to the grave,
And, heeding nought of what men think or say,
Make his own heart his world upon the way!

The New Timon.

9. Mine be the heart that can itself defend—
Hate to the foe, devotion to the friend!
The fearless trust, and the relentless strife,
Honour unsold, and wrong aveng'd with life!

10. My heart is like the sleeping lake,

The New Timon.

Which takes the hue of cloud and sky,
And only feels its surface break

When birds of passage wander by,
Who dip their wings, and upward soar,
And leave it quiet as before.

N. P. WILLIS.

*320

HEAVEN-HELL.

11. My heart is like a lonely bird,
That sadly sings,

Brooding upon its nest unheard,
With folded wings.

MRS. A. B. WELBY.

12. Oh! could we read the human heart,
Its strange, mysterious depths explore,
What tongue could tell, or pen impart
The riches of its hidden lore?

1.

HEAVEN - HELL.

Shall we serve heaven

With less respect than we do minister
To our gross selves?

2. Divines and dying men may talk of hell, But in my heart her several torments dwell.

3. There is perpetual spring, perpetual youth; No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, Famine nor age, have any being there.

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEARE.

MASSINGER AND DECKER.

4. Heaven's the perfection of all that can
Be said or thought, riches, delight, or harmony,
Health, beauty; and all these not subject to
The waste of time, but in their height eternal.

5. Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire

Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain.

SHIRLEY.

MILTON'S Paradise Lost.

6. Here we may reign secure; and in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.

MILTON'S Paradise Lost.

7.

8.

A black and hollow vault,

Where day is never seen; there shines no sun,
But flaming horror of consuming fires;

A lightless sulphur, chok'd with smoky fogs
Of an infected darkness.

In this place

JOHN FORD.

Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts
Of never-dying deaths: there damned souls
Roar without pity; there are gluttons fed
With toads and adders; there is burning oil
Pour'd down the drunkard's throat; the usurer
Is forc'd to sup whole draughts of molten gold;
There is the murderer for ever stabb'd,
Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton
On racks of burning steel, while in his soul
He feels the torment of his raging lust.

JOHN FORD.

1. The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:
There can I sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.

2.

And wisdom's self

Oft seeks for sweet retir'd solitude,

Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,

SHAKSPEARE.

She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings.

MILTON'S Comus.