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While the same plumage that had warmed his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

BYRON'S English Bards, &c.

I have not quail'd to danger's brow
When high and happy-need I now?

BYRON'S Giaour.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs on the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so,"

Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who 'stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last;
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst "bonos mores,"
With a long memorandum of old stories.

The rugged metal of the mine

BYRON'S Don Juan.

Must burn before its surface shine;
But, plung'd within the furnace flame,
It bends and melts-tho' still the same.

BYRON'S Giaour. e?

What is the worst of woes that wait on age'
What stamps the wrinkle deepest on the brow?
To view each loved one blighted from life's page,
And be alone on earth-as I am now.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy,

Have I not seen what human things could do?

From the loud roar of foaming calumny,
To the small whisper of the as paltry few
And subtle venom of the reptile crew?

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, tho' thousand pilgrims fill the way:
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine.


The blackest ink of fate was sure my lot,
And when fate writ my name, it made a blot.

Alone she sate-alone !-that worn-out word,
So idly spoken and so coldly heard;

Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known,
Of hope laid waste, knells in that word—alone!

I may not weep-I cannot sigh,

A weight is pressing on my breast; A breath breathes on me witheringly, My tears are dry, my sighs supprest!

The New Timon.



Let me entreat

You to unfold the anguish of your heart;
Mishaps are master'd by advice discreet,
And counsel mitigates the greatest smart.

SPENSER'S Fairy Queen.

Direct not him whose way himself will choose;
"Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

I pray thee, cease thy counsel,


Which falls into mine ear as profitless

As water in a sieve.


I shall the effect of this good lesson keep,

As watchman to my heart.


Men counsel and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,

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Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air, and agony with words.


Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.



There is in life no blessing like affection;
It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues,

And bringeth down to earth its native heaven :—
Life has naught else that may supply its place.


Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart;
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought.

Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.


BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Oh, sweet are the tones of affection sincere,

When they come from the depth of the heart;
And sweet are the words that banish each care,
And bid sorrow for ever depart!

"T were sweet to kiss thy tears away,
If tears those eyes must know;
But sweeter still to hear thee say,
Thou never hadst them flow.



How cling we to a thing our hearts have nursed!

Oh, if there were one gentle eye
To weep when I might grieve,
One bosom to receive the sigh

Which sorrow oft will heave-
One heart, the ways of life to cheer,
Though rugged they might be-
No language can express how dear
That heart would be to me!

BALFE'S Bohemian Girl.

-Those tones of dear deiight,

The morning welcome, and the sweet good night!

No love is like a sister's love,

Unselfish, free, and pure

A flame that, lighted from above,
Will guide but ne'er allure.

It knows no frown of jealous fear,

No blush of conscious guile;


Its wrongs are pardon'd through a tear,
Its hopes crown'd by a smile.

The sorrows of thy wounded heart

I'll teach thee to forget,

And win thee back by gentle art

From passion's vain regret.

And Time shall bring on faithful wing,

From o'er the flood of tears,

FRY'S Leonora.

The pledge of peace, when grief may cease,

And joy light after years.

FRY'S Leonora.

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-And his big manly voice,

Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.

When forty winters shall besiege your brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,


Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held.


In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

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Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
GOLDSMITH'S Deserted Village.

But grant to life some perquisites of joy;
A time there is, when, like a thrice-told tale,
Long rifled life of sweets can yield no more.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

Age sits with decent grace upon his visage,
And worthily becomes his silver locks;
He wears the marks of many years well spent,
Of virtue truth well tried, and wise experience.


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