He turn'd away-his heart throbb'd high,
The tear was bursting from his eye.

Scott's Rokeby. What gem hath dropp'd, and sparkles o'er his chain?

The tear most sacred shed for others' pain, That starts at once-bright, pure - from pity's mine,

Already polish'd by the hand divine.

Byron's Corsair.

Oh! too convincing- dangerously dear —
In woman's eye th' unanswerable tear!
That weapon of her weakness she can wield,
To save, subdue -at once her spear and shield;
Avoid it virtue ebbs and wisdom errs,
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!
What lost a world, and made a hero fly?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.
Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven,
By this-how many lose not earth-but heaven!
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe,
And seal their own to spare a wanton's woe!
Byron's Corsair.

Then issues forth the storm with sudden burst,
And hurls the whole precipitated air,
Down, in a torrent. On the passive main
Descends the ethereal force, and with strong gust
Turns from its bottom the discolour'd deep.
Thro' the black night that sits immense around,
Lash'd into foam, the fierce contending brine
Seems o'er a thousand raging waves to burn.
Thomson's Seasons.
Along the woods, along the moorish fens,
Sighs the sad genius of the coming storm;
And up among the loose disjointed cliffs,
And fractur'd mountains wild, the brawling brook
And cave, presageful, send a hollow moan,
Resounding long in listening fancy's ear.

Thomson's Seasons.

Thro' all the burden'd air, Long groans are heard, shrill sounds and distant sighs,

That, utter'd by the demon of the night,
Warn the devoted wretch of woe and death.
Thomson's Seasons.
In vain for him the officious wife prepares
The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold,
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense;
And, o'er his in most vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows, a stiffen'd corse,
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast.
Thomson's Seasons.
Oh! when the growling winds contend, and all
The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm;
To sink in warm repose, and hear the din
Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights
Above the luxury of vulgar sleep.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health.
Peace, peace-thou rash and unadvised man
Oh! add not to this night of nature's horrors
The darker shadowing of thy wicked fears.
The hand of heaven, not man, is dealing with us,
And thoughts like thine do make it deal thus
sternly.
Maturin's Bertram.
The strife of fiends is on the battling clouds,
The glare of hell is in these sulphurous lightnings;
This is no earthly storm.

Maturin's Bertram. Of winds and waves, the strangely mingled sounds Ride heavily; the night-winds hollow sweep, Mocking the sounds of human lamentation. Maturin's Bertram.

Monk.

How hast thou fared in this most awful time?

Prior. As one whom fear did not make pitiless:
I bow'd me at the cross for those whose heads
Are naked to the visiting blasts of heav'n
In this its hour of wrath. -

For the lone traveller on the hill of storms,
For the toss'd shipman on the perilous deep;
Till the last peal that thunder'd o'er mine head
Did force a cry of- mercy for myself.

Maturin's Bertram.
Storms, when I was young,

Would still pass o'er like nature's fitful fevers, And render'd all more wholesome. Now their

He comes! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high!

Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm! Wide waves his flickering sword, his bright arms glow

Like summer suns, and light the world below!
Earth, and her trembling isles in ocean's bed,
Are shook; and nature rocks beneath his tread!
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope

'Tis pleasant by the cheerful hearth to hear
Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep,
And pause at times and feel that we are safe;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And with an eager and suspended soul
Woo terror to delight us; but to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,
To know all human skill, all human strength,
Avail not; to look round, and only see
The mountain wave incumbent with its weight
Of bursting waters o'er the reeling bark,-
O God! this is indeed a dreadful thing!

Southey

The sky is changed! and such a change! oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
And this is in the night: Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing on the earth!
And now again 't is black,—and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's
Byron's Childe Harold.

birth.

The sky

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder,
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show
In forked flashes a commanding tempest.

Byron's Sardanapalus.
Hark, hark! deep sounds, and deeper still,
Are howling from the mountain's bosom :
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill,
Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom:
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load.
Byron's Heaven and Earth.
The billows are leaping around it,
The bark is weak and frail,
The sea looks black, and the clouds that bound it
Darkly strew the gale.

Shelley.

I stood where the deepening tempest pass'd,
The strong trees groan'd in the sounding blast,
The murmuring deep-with its wrecks roll'd on;
The clouds o'ershadow'd the mighty sun;
The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side,
And hills to the thunder-peal replied;
The lightning burst on its fearful way,
While the heavens were lit in its red array.
Willis Gaylord Clark.
The night came down in terror. Through the air
Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits roll'd;
The lightning kindling with its vivid glare
T'heir outlines, as they rose, heap'd fold on fold,
The wind, in fitful sighs, swept o'er the sea;
And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep,
Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be
Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep,
But false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd gale
Burst in one loud explosion, far and wide,
Drowning the thunder's voice!

Eves Sargent's Poems.

If men will shun swoln fortune's ruinous blasts, Let them use temperance: nothing violent lasts. IV. Strachey.

Fatal effects of luxury and ease!
We drink our poison, and we eat disease,
Indulge our senses at our reason's cost,
Till sense is pain, and reason hurt or lost.

TEMPTATION.

But all in vain: no fort can be so strong,
No fleshly breast can armed be so sound,
But will at last be won with battery long,
Or unawares at disadvantage found:
Nothing is sure that grows on earthly ground:
And who most trusts in arm of fleshly might,

thee,

The brute 's obedient, and the man is free.
Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest,

His veins not boiling from the midnight feast.
Touch'd by Aurora's rosy hand, he wakes
Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes
The joyful dawnings of returning day,

For which their grateful thanks the whole creation

pay,

All but the human brute: 't is he alone,
Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun.
'Tis to thy rules, O temperance! that we owe
All pleasures, which from health and strength can
flow;

Vigour of body, purity of mind,
Unclouded reason, sentiments refin'd,
Unmixt, untainted joys, without remorse,

Th' intemperate sinner's never-failing curse.

Mary Chandler.

To mix the food by vicious rules of art,
To kill the stomach and to sink the heart,
To make mankind to social virtue sour,
Cram o'er each dish, and be what they devour;
For this the kitchen muse first fram'd her book,
Commanding sweat to steam from ev'ry cook;
Children no more their antic gambols tried,
And friends to physic wonder'd why they died.
Not so the Yanke; his abundant feast,
With simples furnish'd, and with plainness dress'd,
A numerous offspring gathers round his board,
And cheers alike the servant and the lord;
Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous
taste,

And health attends them from the short repast.
Joel Barlow.

Temperate in every place,-abroad, at home,
Thence will applause, and hence will profit come;
And health from either he in time prepares
For sickness, age, and their attendant cares.
Crabbe. The Borough.

Beware the bowl! though rich and bright Its rubies flash upon the sight,

An adder coils its depths beneath, Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death.

Doth soonest fall in disadventurous fight,
And yields his caitiff neck to victor's most despight.
Spenser's Fairy Queen,

What do I love her,

That I desire to speak to her again?
And feast upon her eyes? what is 't I dream on?
O cunning enemy, that to catch a saint,
With saints dost bait thy hook! most dangerous
Is that temptation that doth goad us on
To sin, in loving virtue.

Shaks. Mea, for Mea.

Look upon the very mother of mischief, Who as her daughters ripen, and do bud Their youthful spring, straight she instructs them how

To set a gloss on beauty, add a lustre

To the defect of nature; how to use

The mystery of painting, curling, powd'ring,
And with strange periwigs, pin-knots, borderings
To deck them up like a winter's bush,
For men to gaze at on a midsummer night.
Swetnam the Woman-Hater
And these once learn'd, what wants the tempte!
now,

To snare the stoutest champion of men?

Swetnam the Woman-Hater. What a frail thing is man! it is not worth Our glory to be chaste, while we deny Mirth and converse with women: He is good, That dares the tempter, yet corrects his blood.

Shirley's Lady of Pleasure. The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old; But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor Pope's Moral Essays. But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheen, Nor feel the heart can never all grow old?

Byron's Childe Harold

Could'st thou boast, oh child of weakness?
O'er the sons of wrong and strife,
Were their strong temptations planted
In thy path of life?

Street's Poems.

Whittier's Pocme