Vainly to the child of Fashion,

Giving to ideal woe

Graceful luxury of compassion, Shall the stricken mourner go; Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, Beautiful the hollow show!

WHITTIER.

Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone
To rev'rence what is ancient, and can plead
A course of long observance for its use,
That even servitude, the worst of ills,
Because delivered down from sire to son,
Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing.

COWPER.

Nor custom, nor example, nor vast numbers
Of such as do offend, make less the sin.
For each particular crime, a strict account
Will be exacted; and that comfort which
The damned pretend fellows in misery,
Takes nothing from their torments.

MASSINGER.

Every age on him who strays From its broad and beaten ways, Pours its sevenfold vial.

WHITTIER.

Fashion, a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse.

CHURCHILL.

The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art, The polished jewel's blaze,

May draw the wond'ring gaze,

75

Away with custom! 'tis the plea of fools,
Where crimes enormous, that debase the man,
Rise in thefr own defense: the long-drawn roll
Where the ascent and fall of states or men
Stand variously portrayed; what is it else
Than a sad series of collective guilt,
Whence custom for each wantonness of ill
May draw the shameful precedent?

C. P. LAYARD.

New customs,

Though they be never so ridiculous,
Nay, let them be unmanly, yet are followed.
SHAKSPEARE.

And meekly still the martyrs go,

To keep with Pain their solemn bridal! And still they walk the fire who bow Not down to worship Custom's idol. MASSEY.

O for a world in principle as chaste
As this is gross and selfish! over which
Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,
That govern all things here, shouldering aside
The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her
To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife
In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men.
COWPER.

O! villanous custom makes the Muses' song Stale as the common highway;

Makes dear friends, smiling in each other's face,

Deem each a tiresome fool; the preachor crying

Mysterious night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo! creation widened in man's view.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, O sun? or who could find Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind?

Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife?

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? J. BLANCO WHITE.

Now glowed the firmament With livid sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in cloudy majesty, at length Apparent queen, unvailed her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

MILTON.

The night comes calmly forth, Bringing sweet rest upon the wings of even; The golden wain rolls round the silent north, And earth is slumbering 'neath the smiles of heaven.

BOWRING.

Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,

But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims:
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But while this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it.
SHAKSPEARE.

O night! most beautiful, most rare!
Thou giv'st the heavens their holiest hue!
And through the azure fields of air,
Bring'st down the golden dew!
For thou, with breathless lips apart,
Didst stand in that dim age afar,
And hold upon thy trembling heart
Messiah's herald star!

For this I love thy hallowed reign!

For more than this thrice blest thou art! Thou gain'st the unbeliever's brain

By entering at his heart!

'T. B. READ.

Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night,
Shine out when all is dark,
So would I, cheered by hopes more purely
bright,

Tread still the thorny path, whose close is light,

If but at last the tossed and weary bark Gains the sure haven of her final rest.

LUCY HOOPER.

The glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,

And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night. H. WARE, JR.

Night is the time when nature seems God's silent worshiper,

And ever with a chastened heart

In unison with her,

I lay me on my peaceful couch,
The day's dull cares resigned,
And let my thoughts fold up like flowers
In the twilight of the mind.

SARAH J. CLARK.