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Poor England! thou art a devoted deer,
Beset with every ill but that of fear.
The nations hunt; all mock thee for a prey;
They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay.
Poor Jack,--no matter who,--for when I blame
I pity, and must therefore sink the name,--
Liv'd in his saddle, lov'd the chase, the course,
And always ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
Power will intoxicate the best hearts, as wine the strongest heads. No man is wise enough, nor good enough to be trusted with unlimited power.
Quick is the succession of human events; the cares of to-day are seldom the cares of to-morrow; and when we lie down at night, we may safely say to most of our troubles, "Ye have done your worst; and we shall meet no more."
Religion, richest favor of the skies.
Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid,
In every bosom where her nest is made,
Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest,
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
Returning he proclaims by many a grace,
By shrugs and strange contortions of his face,
How much a dunce that has been sent to roam,
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few respect or use thee as they ought!
But all shall give account of every wrong,
Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue;
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,
Or sell their glory at a market-price!
Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds
A stream of liberal and heroic deeds;
The swell of pity, not to be confined
Within the scanty limits of the mind.
Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
Suburban villas, highway-side retreats,
That dread th' encroachments of our growing streets,
Tight boxes neatly sash'd, and in a blaze
With all a July sun's collected rays,
Delight the citizen, who gasping there,
Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air.
O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought
That could afford retirement, or could not?
'Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight,--
The second milestone fronts the garden gate;
A step if fair, and if a shower approach
You find safe shelter in the next stagecoach,
There prison'd in a parlor snug and small,
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall,
The man of business and his friends compress'd,
Forget their labors, and yet find no rest;
But still 'tis rural,--trees are to be seen
From every window, and the fields are green.
The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
The bird that flutters least is longest on the wing.
The church-going bell.
- verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk
The fall of waters and the song of birds,
And hills that echo to the distant berds,
Are luxuries excelling all the glare
The world can boast, and her chief favorites share.
The false fire of an overheated mind.
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
The innocent seldom find an uneasy pillow.
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something every day they live
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
The man to solitude accustom'd long,
Perceives in everything that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees
Have speech for him, and understood with ease,
After long drought when rains abundant fall,
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read; and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.
The proud are ever most provoked by pride.
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