O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou!
This honour'd dust that soils your company;
Thomas W. Parsons. This thing whom nature carelessly obtruded
Oh! never chide the wing of time,
Or say 't is tardy in its flight;
You'll find the days speed quick enough,
If you but husband them aright.
Time is indeed a precious boon,
But with the boon a task is given; The heart must learn its duty well
Upon the world to teach that pride and folly
Make titular greatness the envy but
Of fools- the wise man's pity.
Habbington's Queen of Arragon,
Miss Cook. I learn'd to admire goodness; that
To man on earth and God in heaven.
Not wholly can the heart unlearn
The lesson of its better hours,
Nor yet has Time's dull footstep worn
To common dust the path of flowers.
Gives the distinction to men; without
This, I behold them but as pictures, which
Are flourish'd with a pencil, to supply
The absence of inward worth, their titles
Miss Cook. Like landskips gracing them only far off.
Sir W. Davenant's Siege.
A fool, indeed, has great need of a title,
It teaches men to call him count and duke,
And to forget his proper name of fool.
Crowne's Ambitious Statesman,
Who, looking backward from his manhood's Titles, the servile courtier's lean reward,
Our God has said
That He will reign on earth! and it is here
His empire will begin; and send its light
Through the dark labyrinths of human pride,
Showing oppression's hideousness; - the chains
That bind old Europe to the bigots' car,
Keeping her nobles slaves to sense and sin;
Till lords shall feel their titles are a scoff,
Blotting man's dignity, and throw them by,
Like gaudes whose tinsel fashion has decay'd,
And put on the true gold of worthiness,
And learn their duty from the people's voice,
And yield their homage to the God of heaven!
This time will come; but first the trial comes.
Mrs. Hale's Ormond Grosvenor
She so loves the token,
(For he conjur'd her she should ever keep it,) That she reserves it evermore about her,
This is some token from a newer friend.
Edward C. Pinckney. For be assur'd they are all arrant tell-tales;
O! what tender thoughts beneath
Those silent flowers are lying,
Hid within the mystic wreath,
My love hath kiss'd in tying!
I form'd for thee a small bouquet,
A keepsake near thy heart to lay,
Because 't is there, I know full well,
That charity and kindness dwell.
I look upon the fading flowers
And though their flight be silent, and their path
As the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record their folly—
Moore. Because, tho' station'd on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumber'st on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
Miss Gould. For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd justice, who shall tell thy audit?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio,
Imprint the marks of wisdoin on its wings;
"Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more
precious
Thou gav'st me, lady, in thy mirth, And mourn that with the perishing hours Such fair things perish from the earth; For thus I know the moment's feeling
Its own light web of life unweaves, The dearest trace from memory stealing, Like perfume from the dying leaves; The thought that gave it, and the flower, Alike the creatures of an hour.
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Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain
Oh! let it not clude thy grasp, but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.
Colton
To-morrow's action? can that hoary wisdom,
Borne down with years, still doat upon to-morrow?
That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward, and the fool, condemn'd to lose
An useless life in wishing for to-morrow,
Till interposing death destroys the prospect!
Strange that this general fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier lab'ring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow dress'd in robes of triumph;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms,
To-morrow brings the visionary bride;
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,
Learn, that the present hour alone is man's.
'Tis a sharper that stakes his penury
Against thy plenty- who takes thy ready cash,
Fetch hither cords, and knives, and sulphurous
He shall be bound and gash'd, his skin fleec'd off, and burnt alive:
And pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and He shall be hours, days, years, a-dying.
In human hearts what bolder thoughts can rise,
Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn?
Where is to-morrow? In another world.
For numbers this is certain; the reverse
Is sure to none; and yet on this "perhaps,"
This "peradventure," infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant we build
Our mountain hopes; spin out eternal schemes
As we the fatal sisters could out-spin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.
Young's Night Thoughts.
Abroad in the world, like a shadow
I pass, and am pass'd in my turn;
We're civil to-day- does it matter,
To-morrow, who's civil or stern?
Miss Jewsbury. I have friends—and they vow that they love me, Far better than praise, or than pelf—
I trust them to-day; and to-morrow
I leave to take care of itself.
To-morrow yet would reap to-day,
As we bear blossoms of the dead:
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw IIaste, half-sister to Delay.
Thoughts that frown upon our mirth
Will smile upon our sorrow, And many dark fears of to-day May be bright hopes to-morrow.
Thou shalt behold him stretch'd in all the agonies
Of a tormenting and shameful death!
His bleeding bowels, and his broken limbs,
Insulted o'er by a vile butchering villain.
Otway's Venice Preserved
yea, to-morrow's evening sun
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun,
And rising with the wonted blush of morn,
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne.
Of torments this the longest and the worst,
Which adds all other agony to thirst,
That day by day death still forbears to slake,
While famish'd vultures flit around the stake.
Byron's Corsair
TRANSPORT.-(See ECSTASY.)
TRAVELLER. TRAVELLING.
He did request ine to importune you,
To let him spend his time no more at home,
Which would be great impeachment to his age,
In having known no travel in his youth.
Shaks. Two Gentlemen of Verona
I have consider'd well his loss of time;
And how he cannot be a perfect man,
Not being try'd, and tutor'd in the world;
Experience is by industry achiev'd,
And perfected by the swift course of time.
Shaks. Two Gentlemen of Verona,
As far as I sec, all the good our English
Have got by their late voyage, is but merely
A fit or two o' th' face.
Tennyson. This is a traveller, sir; knows men and
Wire-draw his skin, spin all his nerves like hair, And work his tortur'd flesh as thin as flame. Lee's Constantine.
His travel has not stopp'd him
As you suppose, nor alter'd any freedom,
But made him far more clear and excellent:
It drains the grossness of the understanding,
And renders active and industrious spirits:
He that knows men's manners, must of necessity
Best know his own, and mend those by examples:
'Tis a dull thing to travel like a mill-horse,
Still in the place he was born in, round and blinded.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Queen of Corinth.
He foreign countries knew, but they were known
Not for themselves, but to advance his own.
Lluellin. Those travell'd youths, whom tender mothers
And send abroad to see, and to be seen;
With whom, lest they should lose their way, or
A tutor's sent, by way of a dry-nurse;
Each of whom just enough of spirit bears
To show our follies, and to bring home theirs,
Have made all Europe's vices so well known,
They seem almost as natʼral as our own.
Me other cares in other climes engage,
Cares that become my birth, and suit my age:
In various knowledge to instruct my youth,
And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth;
By foreign arts, domestic faults to mend,
Enlarge my notions, and my views extend;
The useful science of the world to know,
Which books can never teach, nor pedants show.
Lord Lyttleton.
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace;
Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to
share.
Byron's Childe Harold.
She had resolv'd that he should travel through
All European climes, by land or sea,
To mend his former morals, and get new,
Especially in France and Italy,
(At least this is the thing most people do.)
I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite
Especially when life is rather new.
Returning he proclaims by many a grace,
By shrugs and strange contortions of his face,
How much a dunce that has been sent to roam,
Fxcels a dunce that has been kept at home.
Cowper's Progress of Error.
With rev'rend tutor clad in habit lay,
To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day;
With memorandum-book for ev'ry town,
And ev'ry post, and where the chaise broke down;
His stock, a few French phrases got by heart,
With much to learn, but nothing to impart.
The youth, obedient to his sire's commands,
Sets off a wand'rer into foreign lands.
Surpris'd at all they meet, the gosling pair,
With awkward gait, stretch'd neck, and silly stare,
Discover huge cathedrals built with stone,
And steeples tow'ring high much like our own;
But show peculiar light, by many a grin
At popish practices observ'd within.
Cowper's Progress of Error.
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Treason is but trusted like the fox.
Who, ne'er so tame, so cherish'd, and lock'd up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part I.
That man, that sits within a monarch's heart,
And ripens in the sunshine of his favour,
Would he abuse the countenance of the king,
Alack, what mischiefs might be set abroach,
In shadow of such greatness!
Shaks. Henry IV. Part II. Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side ? Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength? And dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear'st a lion's hide! doff it for shame, And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. Shaks. King John. Thus do all traitors; If their purgation did consist in words, They are as innocent as grace itself.
He has betray'd your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome,
(I say, your city,) to his wife and mother:
Breaking his oath and resolution, like
A twist of rotten silk.
He therefore wisely cast about,
All ways he could, t' ensure his throat,
And hither came, t' observe and smoke
What courses other riskers took;
And to the utmost do his best
Shaks. Coriolanus. To save himself, and hang the rest.
I protest, Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor-sword, and fire-new fortune, Thy valour, and thy heart, thou art a traitor : False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince; And from th' extremest upward of thy head, To the descent and dust beneath thy feet, A most toad-spotted traitor.
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Treason and murder ever kept together,
As two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose:
Working so grossly in a natural cause,
That admiration did not whoop at them.
But thou 'gainst all proportion, didst bring in
Wonder to wait on treason, and on murther;
And whatsoever cunning fiend it was,
That wrought upon thee so prepost'rously,
Hath got the voice in hell for excellence.
Shaks. Henry V.
Smooth runs the water, where the brook is deep,
And in his simple show he harbours treason.
The fox barks not, when he would steal the lamb.
Shaks. Henry VI. Part II.
Were my breast
Transparent, and my thoughts to be discern'd,
Not one spot should be found to taint the candour
Of my allegiance. And I must be bold
To tell you, sir, for he that knows no guilt
Can know no fear, 't is tyranny t' o'ercharge
An honest man, and such till now I've liv'd,
And such, my lord, will die.
Massinger's Great Duke of Florence.
The man, who pauses on the paths of treason, Halts on a quicksand,-the first step engulphs him. Hill's Henry V.
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,
When none can sin against the people's will
Where crowds can wink and no offence be known,
Since in another's guilt they find their own.
Dryden.
Is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heav'n
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man,
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Addison's Cato.
He who contends for freedom, Can ne'er be justly deem'd his sovereign's foe: No, 't is the wretch who tempts him to subvert it, The soothing slave, the traitor in the bosom, Who best deserves that name.
Thomson's Edward and Eleanora.
It is the curse of treachery like mine,
To be most hated, where it most has serv'd.
Havard's Regulus
The man who rises on his country's ruin,
Lives in a crowd of foes, himself the chief:
In vain his power, in vain his pomp and pleasure!
His guilty thoughts, those tyrants of the soul,
Steal in unseen, and stab him in his triumph
Martyn's Timoleon,
By heav'n, there's treason in his aspect!
That cheerless gloom, those eyes that pore on
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