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A magic mirror formed to shew,
Worlds that were dust ten thousand years ago;
They ’re aromatic cloths that hold
The mind embalm'd in many a fold,
And look arrang'd in dust-hung rooms,
Like mummies in Egyptian tombs.
-Enchanted echoes that reply,
Not to the ear but to the eye;
Or pow’rful drugs, that give the brain,
By strange contagion, joy or pain.
A book's the Phænix of the earth,
Which bursts in splendour from its birth,
And like the moon without her wanes,
From every change new lustre gains;
Shining with undiminish'd light,
While ages wing their idle flight.

F. P. H.

NEITHER a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

But you invert the cov'nants of her trust,
And harshly deal, like an ill borrower,
With that which you received on other terms.

Milton. Where virtue borrowed the arms of chance, And struck a random blow.

Dryden. 0, Tyndal! there was once a time,

A pleasant time of old,
Before thou cam’st a borrowing,

Before I lent thee gold;
When scarce a single day did close,

But thee and I, my friend,
Were wont, as often as I chose,

A social hour to spend.
But now, if e'er perchance we meet,

Anon I see thee take
Quick to thy heels adown the street,
Like one who sees a snake.


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For his bounty,
There was no winter in 't; an autumn 't was
That grew the more by reaping.


O blessed bounty, giving all content!
The only fortress of all noble arts,
That lend'st success to every good intent,

grace that rests in the most godlike hearts, By heav'n to none but happy souls infus'd, Pity it is, that e'er thou wast abus'd. Drayton.

Royal bounties
Are great and gracious while they are dispensed
With moderation; but, when their excess
In giving giant bulks to others, takes from
The prince's just proportion, they lose
The name of virtues; and, their natures changed,
Grow the most dangerous vices.


Heaven descends
In universal bounty, shedding herbs,
And fruits, and flowers in nature's ample lap.

Such moderation with thy bounty join,
That thou may’st nothing give that is not thine.

Denham. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery all he had-a tear;He gain’d from Heaven—'twas all he wish'd—a friend!

Gray. Since trifles make the sum of human things, And half our misery from our foibles springs; Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease, And few can love or serve, but all may please; Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, A small unkindness is a great offence: Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain, But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.

Hannah More.

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The goblet was embossed with studs of gold,
Two feet support it and two handles hold;
On each bright handle bending o'er the brink,
In sculptured gold two turtles seem to drink.

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Around the bowl the wanton ivy twines,
And swelling clusters bend the curling vines;
Four figures rising from the work appear,
The various seasons of the rolling year;
And what is that which binds the radiant sky,
Where twelve bright signs in beauteous order lie.

Pope, from Homer.
Two bowls I have well turned of beechen wood,
The lids are ivy: grapes in clusters lurk
Beneath the carving of the curious work:
Two figures on the sides embossed appear,
Cinon, and what 's his name who made the sphere,
And shewed the seasons of the sliding year?
The kimbo handles seem with bear's feet carved,
Where Orpheus on his lyre laments his love,
With beasts encompassed, and a dancing grove.

Dryden, from Virgil.

Thou sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl!

Though lips of bards thy brim may press, And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll,

And song and dance thy power confess, I will not touch thee, for there clings A serpent to thy side that stings. John Pierpont.

Woe to him whose every bliss

Centres in the burthened bowl!
Of all burthens none like this,

Sin's sad burthen on the soul.
'Tis of craft and lies the seeker,

Murder, theft, and wantonness,
Weakens strong men, makes weak weaker,
Shrewd men foolish, foolish less.

From the Welsh.




SPEAK thou boy!
Perhaps thy childishness will move him more
Than can our reasons.


The whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like a snail Unwillingly to school.


They shall belie thy happy years, That say, thou art a man. Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubrous; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman's part. Shakspere.

Sometimes forgotten things long cast behind,
Rush forward on the brain, and come to mind;
The nurse's legends are for truths received,
And the man dreams but what the boy believed.


Happy the school-boy! did he know his bliss,
’T were ill-exchanged for all the dazzling gems
That gaily sparkle in ambition's eye.
His are the joys of nature, his the smile-
The cherub smile of innocence and health;
Sorrow unknown, or if a tear be shed,
He wipes it soon.


There's something in a noble boy,

A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun;
And in his clear and ruddy smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,

And unrepressed by sadness;
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness. N. P. Willis.

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They smile at me—they laughing say,

When will you be a man-
The parting year leaves you the boy

You were when it began;
And I, in love with the disgrace,

Their smiles and jests enjoy,
And thank kind heaven that, old in years,

In heart I'm still a boy.
What is it, this they'd have me win-

This gain from which I start?
A keener calculating head-

Ah loss!-a colder heart;
Well manhood's sense or boyhood's warmth,

But one if I enjoy,
Leave, leave the heart and keep the head,
I still will be a boy.

W. C. Bennett.

BRAG-BRAGGART. SEE'st thou not yon thick hawthorn stud, How bragly it begins to bud?

Spenser. Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it shall come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass.

Shakspere. To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine, a heart as big; Thy words, I grant, are bigger; for I wear not A dagger in my mouth.

Shakspere. A kind of conquest Cæsar made here; but made not here his brag, Of came, and saw, and overcame.

Shakspere. Shall I base slave, of high-born or raised men, Fear frowns; and my mistress, truth, betray thee To the hutting braggart, purst nobility. Donne. Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shewn At courts and feasts, and high solemnities, Where all may wonder.


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