MISERY - SORROW.

Better

409

Die soon, than live on lingeringly in pain.

BYRON'S Two Foscari.

O'er every feature of that still pale face,

Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase.

My life is not dated by years

BYRON'S Corsair.

There are moments which act as a plough,

And there is not a furrow appears,

But is deep in my soul as my brow

The quivering flesh, though torture-torn, may live;

BYRON.

But souls, once deeply wounded, heal no more.

ELLIOT.

No-pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear, and yet live on ;
Like things within the cold rock found
Alive, when all's congeal'd around.
But there's a blank repose in this,
A calm stagnation, that were bliss
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,
Now felt thro' all that breast and brain.

MOORE'S Lalla Rookh

The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briars in his road.

A malady

Preys on my heart, that medicine cannot reach,

Invisible and cureless.

COWPER.

MATURIN'S Bertram

BAILEY'S Festus.

He who has most of heart knows most of sorrow.

410

MISFORTUNE - MOB-RABBLE.

Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind

A deep impression, even when she departs;
While joys trip by with steps light as the wind,
And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts.

MRS. E. C. EMBURY

Oh, woe, deep woe, to earthly love's fond trust,
When all it once has worshipp'd lies in dust!

It breathes no sign, it sheds no tear,
Yet it consumes the heart.

MRS. E. C. EMBURY.

You've seen the lightning-flash at night
Play brightly o'er its cloudy pile,
The moonshine tremble on the height,
When Winter glistens cold and bright,-
And like that flash, and like that light,
Is sorrow's vain and heartless smile.

SHERIDAN.

J. G. WHITTIER.

MISFORTUNE. — (See ADVERSITY.)

MOB-RABBLE.

They praise and they admire they know not what.
And know not whom, but as one leads the other:
And what delight to be by such extoll'd,

To live upon their tongues, and be their talk,
Of whom to be disprais'd were no small praise?

MILTON'S Paradise Regained

The rude reproaches of the rascal herd,
Who, for the self-same actions, if successful,
Would be as grossly lavish in their praise.

THOMSON.

MODESTY - MONEY.

The scum

411

That rises upmost, when the nation boils.

Some popular chief,

More noisy than the rest, but cries halloo,
And in a trice the bellowing herd come out.
They never ask for whom, or what they fight;
But, turn 'em out, and show 'em but a foe:
Cry liberty, and that's a cause for quarrel.

Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt,
And oft'ner change their principles than shirt.

And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal
Huzzas each turn of fortune's wheel,
And loudest shouts when lowest lie
Exalted worth and station high.

Who o'er the herd would wish to reign,
Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain?
Vain as the leaf upon the stream,
And fickle as a changeful dream;
Fantastic as a woman's mood,
And fierce as frenzy's fever'd blood.

DRYDEN.

DRYDEN.

YOUNG.

SCOTT's Rokeby.

412

MOON-STARS-SUN.

MOON-STARS-SUN.

The weary sun hath made a golden set,
And, by the bright track of his fiery car
Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.

But yonder comes the glorious king of day,
Rejoicing in the East.

See, at the call of night,

The star of evening sheds his silver light
High o'er yon western hill.

Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day,
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray.

The sky

Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light
So wildly, spiritually bright.

Who ever gaz'd upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?

SHAKSPEARE.

MILTON

GAY'S Dione

POPE

BYRON'S Siege of Corinth.

Ye stars, that are the poetry of heaven!

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

The queen of night asserts her silent reign.

BYRON'S Corsair.

I'lac'd in the spangled sky, with visage bright
The full-orb'd moon her radiant beams displays;
But 'neath the vivid sun's more splendid rays,
Sinks all her charms, and fades her lovely light.
From the Portuguese.

MOURNING - MOTHER - MOUNTAINS

413

How oft at midnight have I fix'd my gaze

Upon the blue, unclouded firmament,

With thousand spheres illumin'd, and, perchance,
The powerful centres of revolving worlds?

-Going forth,

HON. W. HERBERT.

Her princely way arong the stars in slow

And silent brightness.

H. WARE

But the stars, the soft stars!—when they glitter above us,

I gaze on their beams with a feeling divine;

For, as true friends in scrrow more tenderly love us,
The darker the heaven, the brighter they shine!

MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.

O! who can lift above a careless look,

While such bright scenes as these his thoughts engage, And doubt, while reading from so fair a book,

That God's own finger trac'd the glowing page;

Or deem the radiance of yon blue expanse,

With all its starry hosts, the careless work of Chance?

MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.

MORNING.-(See DAY.)

MOTHER. (See FATHER.)

MOUNTAINS.

He who first met the highlands' swelling blue,
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue;
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.
BYRON'S Island.