And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,
Or holding dark communion with the cloud.
There was a day when they were young and proud,
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below;
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud,
And those which wav'd are shredless dust ere
now,
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future
blow.
Byron's Childe Harold.
There is given
Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent,
A spirit's feeling; and where he hath lent
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruin'd battlement;
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its
dower.
Byron's Childe Harold.
There is a temple in ruin stands,
Fashion'd by long-forgotten hands;
Two or three columns, and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown!
Out upon time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before!
Out upon time! who for ever will leave
But enough of the past for the future to grieve O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be:
What we have seen, our sons shall see;
Remnants of things that have passed away,
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay!
Byron's Siege of Corinth.
Hee, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glar'd in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Wav'd to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the Cæsar sate,
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder!
Edgar A. Poe.
But hold!—these dark, these perishing arcades,
These mouldering plinths, these sad and blacken'd
These vague entablatures, this broken frieze,
'Those shatter'd cornices, this wreck, this ruin,
These stones-alas! these grey stones, are they all,
All of the proud and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours to fate and me?
Edgar A. Poe. flerds are feeding in the Forum, as in old Evander's time:
But alas! if mightiest empires leave so little mark behind,
How much less must heroes hope for, in the wreck of human kind!
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
And of so easy and so plain a stop,
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part II. Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the fear'd.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part II. I from the orient to the drooping west, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth: Upon my tongues continual slanders ride; The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. Shaks. Henry IV. Part II.
But this from rumour's tongue
I idly heard; if true, or false, I know not.
Shaks. King John.
I find the people strangely fantasied;
Possess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams;
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear.
Shaks. King John.
Old men and beldams in the streets
Do prophesy upon it dangerously.
Shaks. King John.
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist;
Whilst he that hears makes fearful action,
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
Shaks. King John.
By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.
Shaks. Richard III.
The flying rumours gather'd as they roll'd,
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told,
And all who told it added something new,
And all who heard it made enlargement too,
In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew.
Pope's Temple of Fame.
Whence slanderous rumour, like the adder's drop, Turabled from the steep Tarpeian every pile that Distils her venom, withering friendship's faith,
How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
The faintest sounds attract the ear, the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness seems thron'd on yon unmoving hill.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellow from the dale,
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tun'd song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzing mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Has ceased: - all, all, around is quietness.
But, chiefly, man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
On other days, the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
Both scat and board-screen'd from the winter's cold
Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!
Six days stern Labour shut the poor
From nature's careless banquet-hall;
The seventh, an Angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!
Bulwer's Poems, Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well be sure He who ordain'd the Sabbath loves the poor. O. W. Holmes.
Oh! welcome to the wearied Earth
The Sabbath resting comes, Gathering the sons of toil and care
Back to their peaceful homes; And, like a portal to the skies,
Opens the House of God,
Where all who seek may come and learn
The way the Saviour trod.
But holier to the wanderer seems
The Sabbath on the deep,
When on, and on, in ceaseless course,
The toiling bark must keep,
And not a trace of man appears
Amid the wilderness
Of waters then it comes like dove
Direct from heaven to bless.
Mrs. Hale's Harry Guy.
Hail, Holy Day! the blessing from above
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or Brightens thy presence like a smile of love,
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure from the city's smoke,
As wandering slowly up the river's bank,
He meditates on Him whose powers he marks
Smoothing, like oil upon a stormy sea,
The roughest waves of human destiny-
Cheering the good, and to the poor oppress'd
Bearing the promise of their heavenly rest.
Mrs. Hale's Rime of Life.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! the blessing lingers yet
On the city of the Chosen, where the Sabbath
seal was set;
And though her sons
are scatter'd, and her daughters weep apart,
While desolation, like a pall, weighs down each
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As the palm beside the waters, as the cedar on
And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots: and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,
He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,)
That heaven may be one sabbath without end."
Let us escape! This is our holiday
She shall rise in strength and beauty, when the Lord Jehovah wills:
He has promis'd her protection, and the holy pledge is good,—
whisper'd through the olive groves, and murmur'd by the flood,
God's day, devote to rest; and through the wood As in the Sabbath stillness the Jordan's flow
But when men think they most in safety stand, Their greatest peril often is at hand.
Drayton's Baron's Wars. What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore;
Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc'd
Too happy were men, if they understood: There is no safety, but in doing good.
How can I bear to think on all
The dangers thou must brave? My fears will deem each galo a storm, While thou art on the wave.
There's a check that is getting ashy white,
As the tokens of storm come on with night;
There's a form that's fix'd at the lattice pane,
To mark how the gloom gathers over the main,
While the yeasty billows lash the shore
With loftier sweep and hoarser roar:
Fountain's Rewards of Virtue. That cheek! that form! oh, whose can they be,
But a mother's who hath a child at sea?
Hark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound,
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound.
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas;
And what a heart-delight they feel at last,
So many toils, so many dangers past,
To view the port desir'd, he only knows
Who on the stormy deep for many a day
Hath tost, aweary of his ocean way,
And watch'd all anxious every wind that blows.
Southey.
Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form!
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay,
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.
Campbell.
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry!
While through the seaman's hand the tackle
glides;
Or school-boy midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.
Byron's Childe Harold.
O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home!
These are our realins, no limits to their sway-
Our flag the sceptre all we meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Nor thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense-the pulse's madd'ning play,
Coat thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
Byron's Corsair.
Miss Eliza Cook's Poems. The dark blue jacket that enfolds the sailor's manly breast
Bears more of real honour than the star and ermine vest;
The tithe of folly in his head may wake the landsman's mirth,
But nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth. Miss Eliza Cook,
O Thou, who in thy hand dost hold
The winds or waves that wake or sleep, Thy tender arms of mercy fold
Around the seamen on the deep! And when their voyage of life is o'er, May they be welcom❜d to the shore Whose peaceful streets with gold are pav'd, And angels sing, "They're sav'd! they're sav'd!” Miss H. F. Gould's Poems. Toss'd on the billows of the main, And doom'd from zone to zone to roam, The seaman toil'd for others' gain, But, for himself, he had no home.
Him there they found
Squat like a toad close at the ear of Eve,
Assaying by his devilish art to reach
The organs of her fancy, and with them forge
Illusions as he list, phantasms, and dreams:
Or if inspiring venom, he might taint
Th' animal spirits that from pure blood arise
Like gentle breaths from rivers pure, thence raise
At least distemper'd, discontented thoughts,
Vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires,
Blown up with high conceits, engend'ring pride.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Their dread commander; he, above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
Stood like a tower; his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appear'd
Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess
Of glory obscur'd; as when the sun, new-risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams; or, from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone
Above them all the archangel: but his face
Deep scars of thunder had entrench'd, and care
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
Of dauntless courage and considerate pride,
Waiting revenge: cruel his eye, but cast
Signs of remorse and passion to behold
The fellows of his crime, the followers rather.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
But bringing up the rear of this bright host,
A spirit of a different aspect wav'd
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast
Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is pav'd;
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost;
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engrav'd
Eternal wrath on his immortal face,
And where he gaz'd a gloom pervaded space.
Byron's Vision of Judgment.
They surfeited with honey; and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little
More than a little is by much too much.
A surfeit is the father of much fast,
So every scope by the immoderate use
Turns to restraint; our natures do pursue
(Like rats that raven down their proper bane)
A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die.
Shaks. Mea. for Mea
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
While it was ours.
Shaks. Much Ado
Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;
Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befel;
He felt the fulness of satiety.
Byron's Childe Harold
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for woe,
And e'en for change of seene would seek the shades
below.
Byron's Childe Harold.
But passion raves herself to rest, or flies;
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting
doom.
Byron's Childe Harold.
For ennui is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language: - we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.
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- in youth all action and all life, Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; Woman the field-the ocean - all that gave Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below,
And found his recompense in joy or woc,
No tame trite mediuin; for his feelings sought
In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements hath rais'd;
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high,
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
Chain'd to excess, the slave of such extreme,
Shaks. Henry IV. Part I. How woke he from the wildness of that dream?
Who riseth from a feast,
With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Where is the horse, that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unabated fire,
That he did pave them first? all things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
Shaks. Merchant of Venice.
Alas! he told not- but he did awake
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break
Unto satiety with honied strains,
That daily from the fount of Helicon
Flow murmuring.
I sorrow that all fair things must decay,
While time and accident and miseries last; That the red rose so soon must fade away,
The white be sullied by the ruthless blast; The pure snow turned to mud in half a day; Even heaven's own glorious azure be o'ercast; Imperial ermine be with dust defiled,
The labouring bee, when his sharp sting is gone,
Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone;
Such is a satire, when you take away
The rage in which his noble vigour lay.
Will the learn'd and the judicious know,
That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low,
And China's finest crockery cracked and spoiled. As any one abstracted fop to show?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says, his bravery is not on my cost,
(Thinking that I mean him) but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
There then; How, what then? Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself: if he be free,
Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man.
Shaks. As you I'm one whose whip of steel can with a lash Imprint the characters of shame so deep, Ev'n in the brazen forehead of proud sin, That not eternity shall wear it out.
Randolph's Muse's Looking-Glass.
I have untruss'd the proudest; greatest tyrants
Have quak'd below my powerful whip, half dead
With expectation of the smarting jerk,
Instructive satire! true to virtue's cause!
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our ragė;
When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the law shows her teeth, but dares not bite,
And South Sea treasures are not brought to light;
When churchmen scripture for the classics quit,
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
To chase our spleen, when themes like these in-
crease,
Whose wound no salve can cure. Each blow doth Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?
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