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Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain ;

For violets plucked the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow again.

The Friar of Orders Gray.

We'll shine in more substantial honors,

And to be noble we'll be good.*

And when with envy time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

My mind to me a kingdom is ;+

Such perfect joy therein I find,

As far exceeds all earthly bliss,

Winefreda.

That God and Nature hath assigned.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good.

Ibid.

TENNYSON. Lady Clara Vere de Vere.

+ Mens regnum bona possidet.

SENECA. Thyestes, Act ii. Line 380.

My mind to me an empire is

While grace affordeth health.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 1560-1595.

Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

From Byrd's Psalmes, Sonnets, &c., 1588.

He that had neyther been kithe nor kin

Might have seen a full fayre sight.

Guy of Gisborne.

BEILBY PORTEUS. 1731-1808.

IN sober state,

IN

Through the sequestered vale of rural life,

The venerable patriarch guileless held

The tenor of his way.*

One murder made a villain,

Death. Line 108.

Millions a hero. Princes were privileged
To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime.

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War its thousands slays, Peace its ten thousands.

Thou,

Ibid. Line 178.

Whom soft-eyed pity once led down from Heaven
To bleed for Man, to teach him how to live,

And oh! still harder lesson, how to die.‡

*Cf. GRAY, p. 229.

Ibid. Line 16.

+ Cf. YOUNG, p. 211.

There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high

The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.

TICKELL on the Death of Addison.

Q

242

BEATTIE-CHURCHILL.

A

JAMES BEATTIE. 1735-1803.

H! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?

The Minstrel. Book i. St. 1.

At the close of the day when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.

He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man.

The Hermit.

Ibid.

By the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind.

Ibid.

How hard their lot who neither won nor lost.

Epigram. The Bucks had dined.

CHARLES CHURCHILL. 1741-1764.

HE mouths a sentence, as curs mouth a bone.

But spite of all the criticizing elves,

The Rosciad. Line 322.

Those who would make us feel-must feel themselves.*

* Si vis me flere, dolendum est

Primum ipsi tibi.-HORACE. Ars Poetica, 102.

Line 861.

With curious art the brain, too finely wrought,
Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.

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NITED yet divided, twain at once.

Seng.

So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne.*

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds

Book i. The Sofa.

Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature.

Ibid.

The earth was made so various, that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change,

And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.

Ibid.

*Two Kings of Brentford, from Buckingham's play of the Rehearsal.

God made the country, and man made the town.*

Book i. The Sofa.

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,

Might never reach me more.†

Book ii.

The Timepiece.

Mountains interposed

Make enemies of nations, who had else,
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.

I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country and their shackles fall.‡ Ibid.

England, with all thy faults I love thee still,

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Oh that I had in the wilderness a lodging-place of wayfaring men.Jeremiah ix. 2.

Servi peregrini, ut primum Galliæ fines penetraverint eodem momento liberi sunt.-BODINUS. Liber i. c. 5.

§ Be England what she will,

With all her faults she is my country still.

CHURCHILL.

The Farewell.

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