Page images



The body sins not; 't is the will
That makes the action good or ill.


Our unsteady actions cannot be
Manag'd by rules of strict philosophy.



If it were done, when 't is done, then, 't is well
That it were done quickly.


Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,

But cheerly seek how to redress their harm.


Let's take the instant by the forward top;
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
The inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals, ere we can effect them.

How slow the time

To the warm soul, that, in the very instant

It forms, would execute a great design!

The keen spirit


Seizes the prompt occasion,-makes the thoughts
Start into instant action, and at once
Plans and performs, resolves and executes !

My days, though few, have pass'd below
In much of joy, though much of woe;
Yet still, in hours of love or strife,
I've 'scap'd the weariness of life.



BYRON'S Giaour.

Act! for in action are wisdom and glory;
Fame, immortality-these are its crown;
Would'st thou illumine the tablets of story?—
Build on achievements thy doom of renown.

From the German.

Seize, mortals, seize the transient hour:
Improve each moment as it flies:

[blocks in formation]

Look to the players; see them well bestow'd:

They are the abstract and brief chroniclers of the times.

They say we live by vice; indeed 'tis true;

As the physicians by diseases do,

Only to cure them.



Boldly I dare say

There has been more by us in some one play
Laugh'd into wit and virtue, than hath been
By twenty tedious lectures drawn from sin,
And foppish humours; hence the cause doth rise,
Men are not won by th' ears, so well as eyes.




When, with mock majesty and fancied power,
He struts in robes, the monarch of an hour;
Oft wide of nature must he act a part,
Make love in tropes, in bombast break his heart;
In turn and simile resign his breath,
And rhyme and quibble in the pains of death.

Whose every look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres, and shouting crowds,
And made even thick-lipp'd, musing melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile

Before she was aware.

What we hear


BLAIR'S Grave.

With weaker passion will affect the heart,
Than when the faithful eye beholds the part.

FRANCIS' Horace.

Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,
Holds its warp'd mirror to a gaping age;
There, where to raise the Drama's moral tone,
Fool Harlequin usurps Apollo's throne.

SPRAGUE'S Curiosity.

Where one base scene shall turn more souls to shame,
Than ten of Channing's Lectures can reclaim.

SPRAGUE'S Curiosity.

Where mincing dancers sport tight pantalets,
And turn fops' heads while turning pirouettes.

SPRAGUE'S Curiosity.

And turn from gentle Juliet's woe,
To count the twirls of Fanny Elssler's toe.

SPRAGUE'S Curiosity.


With that, wringing my hand he turn'd away,
And though his tears would hardly let him look,
Yet such a look did through his tears make way,
As show'd how sad a farewell there he took.

I part with thee


As wretches, that are doubtful of hereafter,

Part with their lives, unwilling, loath and fearful,
And trembling at futurity.


Then came the parting hour, and what arise
When lovers part-expressive looks, and eyes
Tender and tearful-many a fond adieu,
And many a call the sorrow to renew.

"T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word, farewell-farewell!


Farewell!-a word that hath been and must be,
A sound that makes us linger-yet, farewell!


BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Let's not unman each other-part at once;
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever,
Else they make an eternity of moments,
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears.

One struggle more, and I am free

BYRON'S Sardanapalus.

From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again.




Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,
"Twere vain and foolish to regret thee;
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,
But time may teach me to forget thee.

But now the moments bring

The time of parting, with redoubled wing;
The why-the where-what boots it now to tell?
Since all must end in that wild word, farewell!

Fare thee well! yet think awhile


BYRON'S Corsair.

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee;
Who now would rather trust that smile,

And die with thee, than live without thee!


With all my soul, then let us part,

Since both are anxious to be free;
And I will send you home your heart,
If you will send back mine to me!


Well-peace to thy heart, tho' another's it be;

And health to thy cheek, tho' it bloom not for me.


Enough that we are parted-that there rolls
A flood of headlong fate between our souls,
Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
As hell from heaven, to all eternity!

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,

MOORE'S Lalla Rookh.

Softly on my soul that fell;
Go, for me no longer beaming,
Hope and beauty, fare thee well!

Vanish'd, like dew-drops from the spray,
Are moments which in beauty flew;

« PreviousContinue »