In thy heart there is a holy spot,
As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm.
The common ingredients of health and long life For ever green!—the world's breath enters not,
HEART. Heaven's Sovereign spares all beings but himself That hideous sight-a naked, human heart! Young's Night Thoughts.
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. Byron.
To me she gave her heart-the all Which tyranny cannot enthral.
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd, Look on the fountain of the burning tear.
The passion-tempest may not break its calin 'Tis thine, all thine.
I have ease, and I have health, And I have spirits light as air; And more than wisdom, more than wealth- A merry heart that laughs at care.
H. H. Milman. The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it, Or who ever read in the depth of their own, How much we never may speak of, yet feel it, But even in feeling it, know it unknown? Miss Landon. The heart builds up its hopes, though not address d To meet the sunset glories of the west, But garner'd in some still, sweet-singing nest. Miss Landon.
Oh, no! my heart can never be
Again in lightest hopes the same; The love that lingers there for thee Hath more of ashes than of flame.
-Seek for a bosom all honest and true, Where love once awaken'd will never depart; Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, And you'll find there's no home like the home in the heart. Eliza Cook. -We, in the dark chamber of the heart, Sitting alone, see the world tabled to us;
And the world wonders how recluses know So much, and most of all, how we know them.
It is they who paint themselves upon our hearts In their own lights and darknesses, not we.
Is a rich soil, wherein lie many germs Hid by the cunning hand of nature there To put forth blossoms in their fittest season; And though the love of home first breaks the soil,
With its embracing tendrils clasping it, Other affections, strong and warm will grow, While that one fades, as summer's flush of bloom Succeeds the gentle budding of the spring. Mrs. Frances K. Butler.
My heart is like the sleeping lake, 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.
My heart is like a lonely bird, That sadly sings,
Brooding upon its nest unheard, With folded wings.
HEAVENS. There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth, No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, Famine nor age have any being there.
Massinger and Decker's Virgin Martyr
What a poor value do men set of heaven! Be said, or thought, riches, delight, or harmony. Heaven, the perfection of all that can Health, beauty; and all these not subject to The waste of time; but in their height eternal; Lost for a pension, or poor spot of earth,
Favour of greatness, or an hour's faint pleasure! As men in scorn of a true flame that's near, Should run to light their taper at a glow-worm. Shirley's St. Patrick for Ireland.
Blest heaven, how are thy ways just like thy orbs, Willis's Poems. Involv'd within each other? Yet still we find Thy judgments are like comets, that do blaze, Affright, but die withal; whilst that thy mercies Are like the stars, who oft-times are obscur'd, But still remain the same behind the clouds. Fountain's Rewards of Virtue
I am not old-though 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
A pure heart That burns to ashes, yet conceals its pain, For fear it mar its hopeless source of love, Is not to be despised, or lightly held.
Is as the book of God before thee set, Wherein to read his wond'rous works. Milton's Paradise Lost
Were of strange mould, which kept no cherish'd Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night; print
Of carlier, happier times, when life was fresh, And love and innocence made holiday.
God said, Let Newton be; and all was light.
Devotion! daughter of astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad.
What involution! what extent! what swarms Of worlds, that laugh at earth! immensely great. Immensely distant from each other's spheres; What, then, the wondrous space through which they roll?
At once it quite ingulphs all human thought; 'Tis comprehension's absolute defeat.
This prospect vast, what is it?-weigh'd aright, 'Tis nature's system of divinity,
And every student of the night inspires. 'Tis elder scripture, writ by God's own hand: Scripture authentic! uncorrupt by man.
Young's Night Thoughts. One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine; And light us deep into the deity; How boundless in magnificence and might! O what a confluence of ethereal fires,
From urns unnumber'd, down the steep of heaven, Streams to a point, and centres in my sight! Nor tarries there; I feel it at my heart: My heart, at once, it humbles, and exalts; Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies.
And stars are kindling in the firmament, To us how silent-though like ours, perchance, Busy and full of life and circumstance.
Rogers's Human Life. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven; If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires-'t is to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have nam'd them. selves a star. Byron's Childe Harold. Heaven darkly works;—yet, where the seed hath
There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen. Mrs. Hemans. The blue, deep, glorious heavens !-I lift mine eye, And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And own'd thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still! that never yet There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night! I bless thee, O my God! Mrs. Hemans. Heaven asks no surplice round the heart that feels, And all is holy where devotion kneels.
Oh, thou beautiful
And unimaginable ether! and
Ye multiplying masses of increas'd
And still increasing lights! what are ye? what Is this blue wilderness of interminable air, Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? Is your course measur'd for ye? or do ye Sweep on in your unbounded revelry Through an aerial universe of endless Expansion, at which my soul aches to think, Intoxicated with eternity?
Oh God! oh Gods! or whatsoe'er ye are ! How beautiful ye are! how beautiful Your works, or accident, or whatsoe'er They may be! let me die, as atoms die, (If that they die) or know ye in your might And knowledge! My thoughts are not in this hour Unworthy what I see, though my dust is; Spirit! let me expire, or see them nearer!
Oh! why do heavenly visions from the mind Pass, like the rainbow mists that wreathe around, And tinge with beauty the unsightly rock?
Mrs. Hale's Poems. Heaven would be hell if lov'd ones were not there, And any spot a heaven, if we could save From every stain of earth, and thither bear The hearts that are to us our hope and care, The soil whereon our purest pleasures grow Around the quiet hearth we often share, From the quick change of thought, the tender flow Of fondness wak'd by smiles, the world we love
Divines and dying men may talk of hell, But in my heart her several torments dwell. Shaks. Yorkshire Tragedy Yet from these flames No night, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope comes That comes to all, but torture without end. Milton's Paradise Lo
There is a place in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoky fogs Of an infected darkness; in this place 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. There stand those wretched things,
Who have dream'd out whole years in lawless
And secret incests, cursing one another.
Hell at last Yawning receiv'd them whole, and on them clos'd; Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Fast we found, fast shut,
The dismal gates, barricadoed strong; But, long ere our approaching, heard within Noise, other than the sound of dance or song; Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage. Milton's Paradise Lost. Hail, horrors! hail, Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell, Receive thy new possessor; one who brings A mind not to be chang'd by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. Milton's Paradise Lost.
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. Lucifer. Behold my world! Man's science counts it not
To overcome in battle, and subdue
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory, and for glory done Of triumph, to be styl'd great conquerors, Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods, Destroyers rightlier call'd and plagues of men. Milton's Paradise Lost. Conquerors, who leave behind Nothing but ruin, wheresoe'er they rove, And all the flourishing works of peace destroy, Then swell with pride, and must be titled gods, Great benefactors of mankind, deliverers, Worshipp'd with temple, priest and sacrifice; One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other; Till conq'ror death discover them scarce men, Rolling in brutish vices, and deform'd, Violent or shameful death their due reward. Milton's Paradise Regained
For great commanders only own What's prosperous by the soldier done.
For he was of that noble trade That demi-gods and heroes made. Slaughter and knocking on the head, The trade to which they all were bred; And is, like others, glorious when 'Tis great and large, but base if mean. The former rides in triumph for it, The latter in a two-wheel'd chariot, For daring to profane a thing So sacred with vile bungling.
From age to age in everlasting debt; Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convey Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel
To rust on medals, or on stones decay.
Dr. Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes. At every step
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil. He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark, Toils much to earn a monumental pile, That may record the mischief he has done.
Cowper's Task. Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his memory, dear to every muse, Who with a courage of unshaken root, In honour's field advancing his firm foot, Plants it upon the line that justice draws, And will prevail or perish in the cause.
But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to nought but his ambition true, Who for the sake of filling with one blast The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.
Cowper. Each with a gigantic stride, Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace To make his greatness greater, and inscribe His name in blood.
And though in peaceful garb arrayed,
And weaponless except his blade,
His stately mien as well implied
A high-born heart and martial pride,
As if a baron's crest he wore,
And sheathed in armour trod the shore.
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now. Byron.
"Tis thus the spirit of a single mind Makes that of multitudes take one direction, As roll the waters to the breathing wind, Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection, Or as a little dog will lead the blind, Or a bell-wether from the flock's connection, By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual, Such is the sway of your great men o'er little.
Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,
Scott's Lady of the Lake. Demons in act, but gods at least in face,
On his bold visage middle age
Had slightly pressed his signet sage, Yet had not quenched the open truth, And fiery vehemence of youth; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of hasty love, or headlong ire.
Scott's Lady of the Lake.
In Conrad's form seems little to admire, Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire; Robust but not Herculean- to the sight No giant frame sets forth his common height; Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, Saw more than makes the crowd of vulgar men, They gaze and marvel how-and still confess That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. Byron's Corean
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