Like love and friendship, these, a comely pair, What's done by one, the other has a share: When heat is felt, we judge that fire is near, Hope's twilight comes-faith's day will soon
Thus when the Christian's contest doth begin, Hope fights with doubts, till faith's reserves come in. Hope comes desiring and expects relief; Faith follows, and peace springs from firm belief. Hope balances occurrences of time;
Faith will not stop till it has reach'd the prime. Just like co-partners in joint stock of trade, What one contracts is by the other paid. Make use of hope thy labouring soul to cheer, Faith shall be giv'n, if thou wilt persevere. We see all things alike with either eye, So faith and hope the self-same object spy. But what is hope? or where or how begun? It comes from God, as light comes from the sun. Thomas Hogg.
Hopes, what are they? - Beads of morning,
Strung on slender blades of grass; Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.
Hope rules a land for ever green;
Promising well, and love-touch'd dreams for some, And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes
Wordsworth. For gold and pleasure.
Oh, if there were not better hopes than these- Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame— If truth, and fervour, and devotedness, Finding no worthy altar, must return And die with their own fulness—if beyond The grave there is no heaven, in whose wide air The spirit may find room, and in the love Of whose bright habitants this lavish heart May spend itself—what thrice-mock'd fools are we! Willis.
I saw young Harry with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd. Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury. And vaulted with such ease into his seat. As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship Shaks. Henry IV. Part I
As seamen ride with all their force, And tug as if they row'd the horse, And when the hackney sails most swift, Believe they lag, or run adrift.
Butler's Hudibras. The beast was sturdy, large, and tall, With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall, I would sav eye, for h' had but one. As most agree: the' some say none.
And its fairest scene scems but a desolate waste; Then come ye not near me, my sad soul to cheer With friendship's soft accents or sympathy's tear; No counsel I ask, and no pity I need,
You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold, That is not often vouch'd, while 't is a making, 'Tis given with welcome: to feed, were best at home;
From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it.
Now good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both.
I charge thee, inve them all: let in the tide But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young Of knaves once more; my cook and I'll provide.
Oh! not all the pleasure that poets may praise, Not the wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze, Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, Nor the sail high heaving waters o'er, Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore,- Can the wild and fearless joy exceed Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed.
Shaks. Timon of Athens The broken soldie, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd w glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe.
Goldsmith's Deserted Village
His house was known to all the vagrant train, le chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain. Goldsmith's Deserted Village. Elest be the spot, where cheerful guests retire, To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire. Blest that abode, where want and pain despair, And every stranger finds a ready chair: Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks, that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good.
Goldsmith's Traveller. Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers
Lives and deaths still troublesome; But humility doth sleep, whilst the storm Grows hoarse with scolding.
Sir W. Davenant's Cruel Brother. First praise
Her mighty spirit; then, when she weeps, All things were held in common, and what one had Gather up her tears for scatter'd pearl.
Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,
So mighty, and so many my defects, That I would rather hide me from my greatness Being a bark to brook no mighty sea Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd.
He that will once give the
Wall, shall be quickly thrust into the kennel. Chapman's May-Day.
Humility is eldest-born of virtue,
And claims the birth-right at the throne of heav'n Murphy's Zobeide.
Shaks. Richard III. Humility, that low, sweet root,
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth, And, by my body's action, teach my mind A most inherent baseness.
Shaks. Coriolanus.
You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, Wears out his time, much like his master's ass, For nought but provender, and when he's old, cashier'd;
Whip me such honest knaves.
From which all heavenly virtues shoot.
Moore's Loves of the Angels.
The meek mountain daisy, with delicate crest, And the violet whose eye told the heaven of her Mrs. Sigourney.
Humility mainly becometh the converse of man with his Maker,
Shaks. Othello. But oftentimes it seemeth out of place of man
Signor Antonio, many a time, and oft In the Rialto, you have rated mo About my moneys, and my usances: Sull have I borne it with a patient sarug: sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. Shaks. Merchant of Venice.
Render unto all men their due, but remember
And cheat not thyself or the reverence which is
owing to thy reasonable being.
Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy.
Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should, in their own confines, with forked heads Have their round haunches gor'd.
Shaks. As you like it. The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.
And puts his last weak refuge in despair. The big round tears run down his dappled face; He groans .n anguish; while the growling pack, Blood-happy, hang at his fair-jutting chest, And mark his beauteous chequer'd sides with gore. Thomson's Seasons.
The forest music is to hear the hounds Rend the thin air, and with a lusty cry Awake the drowsy echo, and confound Their perfect language in a mingled sound. Day's Isle of Gulls.
Shaks. As you like it. The healthy huntsman, with a cheerful horn,
But, up to the mountains;
This is not hunter's language: he that strikes The venison first, shall be the lord o' the feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state.
Wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds will make the welkin answer them, And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. Shaks. Taming the Shrew. We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
Summons the dogs and greets the dappled morn. The jocund thunder wakes th' enliven'd hounds, They rouse from sleep, and answer sounds for sounds;
Wild through the furzy field their route they take, Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake; The flying game their smoking nostrils trace, No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace; The distant mountains echo from afar, And hanging woods resound the flying war: The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears, Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling ears; The slacken'd rein now gives him all his speed, Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed;
Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream. Hills, dales, and forests, far behind remain,
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves, The skies, the fountains, every region near Seem all one mutual cry: I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream.
Hunting is the noblest exercise, Makes men laborious, active, wise, Brings health, and doth the spirits delight, It helps the hearing, and the sight: It teacheth arts that never slip The memory, good horsemanship, Search, sharpness, courage and defence, And chaseth all ill habits thence.
Jonson's Masques. Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare! Scar'd from the corn, and now to some lorn seat Retir'd: the rushy fen; the ragged furze, Stretch'd o'er the stony heath; the stubble chapt; The thistly lawn; the thick entangled broom; Of the same friendly hue, the wither'd fern; The fallow ground laid open to the sun, Concoctive; and the nodding sandy bank, Hung o'er the mazes of the mountain brook; Vain is her best precaution.
While the warm scent draws on the deep-mouth'd Gay's Rural Sport.
In vain malignant streams and winter fogs Load the dull air, and hover round our coasts; The huntsman, ever gay, robust, and bold, Defies the noxious vapour, and confides In this delightful exercise to raise
His drooping head and cheer his heart with joy. Somerville's Chase. Ye vig'rous swains! while youth ferments your blood,
And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood, Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset, Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net. When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds, And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds, Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds, Panting with hope he tries the furrow'd grounds; But when the tainted gales the game betray, Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey; Secure they trust th' unfaithful field beset, 'Till hov'ring o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net. Pope's Windsor Forest. The cheerful morn
Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting steed. Already see the deep-mouth'd bugles catch The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport Intent, with emulous impatience try Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey Delights you more, go chase the desperate deer; And through its deepest solitudes awake The vocal forest with the jovial horn.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health. Liv'd in his saddle, lov'd the chase, the course, And always, e'er he mounted, kiss'd his horse, Cowper's Retirement. Again impetuous to the field he flies, Leaps ev'ry fence but one-there falls and dies; Like a slain deer, the tumbril brings him home, Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom. Cowper's Progress of Error.
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
Cowper's Needless Alarm.
Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and
When huntsmen wind the merry horn, And from its covert starts the fearful prey; Who, warm'd with youth's blood in his swelling veins,
Would, like a lifeless clod outstretched lie, Shut up from all the fair creation offers ? Joanna Baillie's Ethwald.
My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall. I wish I were as I have been, Hunting the hart in forests green, With bended bow, and bloodhound free, For that's the life is meet for me!
Scott's Lady of the Lake.
As chief who hears his warder call, "To arms! the foemen storm the wall," The antler'd monarch of the waste Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But, ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; Like crested leader proud and high, Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky; A moment gaz'd adown the dale, A moment snuff'd the tainted gale, A moment listen'd to the cry, That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh; Then, as the headmost foes appear'd, With one brave bound the copse he clear'd, And stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Scott's Lady of the Lake An hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, Clatter'd an hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry hours rung out, An hundred voices join'd the shout; With hark and whoop, and wild halloo, No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew: Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close in her covert cower'd the doe, The falcon from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wandering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken, The hurricane had swept the glen; Faint and more faint, its failing din Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill.
Scott's Lady of the Lake He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o'er several country gentlemen. Вугом.
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