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Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb!
Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep.
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
We ne'er forget, tho' there we are forgot.
We will renew the times of peace and justice,
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth;
Not rash equality, but equal rights,
Proportion'd like the columns of the temple
Giving and taking strength reciprocal,
And making firm the whole with grace and beauty;
So that no part could be removed without
Infringement of the general symmetry.
Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life?
The varying fortune of each separate field,
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?
The smoking ruin and the crumbled wall?
In this the struggle was the same with all.
What careth she for hearts when once possessed?
What is the sin which is not
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin
What of them is left, to tell
Where they lie, and how they fell?
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves:
But they live in the Verse that immortally saves.
What, lost a world, and bade a hero fly?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.
When all is past, it is humbling to tread o'er the weltering field of the tombless dead.
When dinner has oppress'd one,
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.
When friendship or love our sympathies move,
When truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a tear.
When knaves and fools combin'd o'er all prevail,
When justice halts, and right begins to fail,
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame--unknown to other fears.
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.
When we have what we like 'tis hard to miss it.
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
Where is honor,
Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock
Of faith connubial: where it is not--where
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart,
Or sensual throbs convulse it.
"Where is the world?" cries Young, at eighty. "Where
The world in which a man was born?" Alas!
Where is the world of eight years past? 'Twas there--
I look for it--'tis gone, a globe of glass
Cracked, shivered, vanished, scarcely gazed on ere
A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.
Where there is mystery, it is generally supposed that there must also be evil.
Who could be happy and alone or good?
Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides.
Who listens once will listen twice; her heart be sure is not of ice, and one refusal no rebuff.
Who upon earth could live were all judged justly?
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