His days and times are passed, And my reliance on his fracted dates Has smit my credit. Shakspere. My father's promise ties me not to time; Then raise Dryden. From the conflagrant mass purged and refined, Could the declining of this fate, O friend, DAWN. Milton. Denham. I HAVE been troubled in my sleep this night, Shakspere. While we behold such dauntless worth appear Dryden. Thy hand strikes out some free design, The waking dawn, When night-fallen dews, by day's warm courtship won, Nature, new-blossomed, shed her colours round; Soft as a bride, the rosy dawn Aaron Hill. And, bathed in blushes, hath withdrawn The mantle from her eyes; And, with her orbs dissolved in dew, Bends like an angel softly through The blue-pavilioned skies.-Mrs. A. B. Welby. NIGHT'S Swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger; At whose approach, ghosts wand'ring here and there, Troop home to church-yards. Of night impatient we demand the day; Shakspere. The day arrives, then for the night we pray; Life is a trifle we must shortly pay, And where's the mighty lucre of a day?-Young. Life's buzzing sounds and flattering colours play Nor is our freedom full, or contemplation pure, Blest power of sunshine! genial day! Watts. Moore. The spirit of the day is still awake, And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again: But through the idle mesh of power shall break, Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain; Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain, Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain The smile of heaven;-till a new age expands Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands. W. C. Bryant. DEATH. DEATH. 'Tis the only discipline we are born for; All studies else are but as circular lines, And death the centre where they all must meet. Gather the rose-buds while ye may, 231 Massinger. And that same flower that blooms to-day, Death, grim death, Will fold me in his leaden arms, and press Me close to his cold, clayey breast. Herrick. Congreve. O death, all eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when 't is man we love. Pope. A death-bed's the detector of the heart: How shocking must thy summons be, O Death! Man, art thou great or vile? Die, and thou shalt know! Blair. From the Italian of Alfieri. Death, when unmasked, shows us a friendly face, Can storied urn, or animated bust Goldsmith. Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust. Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?-Gray. By no means run in debt. Take thine own measure. The curious unthrift makes his clothes too wide; There died my father, no man's debtor; To this great loss a sea of tears is due; Pope. But the whole debt not to be paid by you.-Waller. If he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulders lay Philips. DECAY. FOR all, that in this world is great and gay, The monarch oak Three centuries grows, and three he stays Each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer, and now darker days. Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, Spenser. Dryden. ** Pope. And those decays, to speak the naked truth, Through the defects of age, were crimes of youth. A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, Denham. Byron. DECEIT-DECEPTION. WHAT man so wise, what earthly wit so ware, 233 To seem like truth, whose shape she well can feign, Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot on sea, and one on shore, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Shakspere. The lovely young Lavinia once had friends, And fortune smiled deceitful on her birth-Thomson. O, what a tangled web we weave, Scott. DECENCY. THOSE thousand decencies, that daily flow And must I own, she said, my secret smart? Milton. Dryden. She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought, Pope. Immodest words admit of no defence, Roscommon. |