That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, aye, in my heart of hearts.
Shakspere.
Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams;
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care,
On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear,
The surest virtues thus from passions shoot,
Wild nature's vigour working at the root.
While passions glow, the heart, like heated steel,
Takes each impression, and is worked at pleasure.
Young.
When headstrong passion gets the reins of reason,
The force of nature, like too strong a gale,
For want of ballast, oversets the vessel. Higgons.
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.
O, how the passions, insolent and strong,
Bear our weak minds their rapid course along;
Make us the madness of their will obey;
Then die, and leave us to our griefs a prey!
A night of fretful passion may consume
All that thou hast of beauty's gentle bloom,
And one distemper'd hour of sordid fear
Print on thy brow the wrinkles of a year.-Sheridan.
His soul, like bark with rudder lost,
On passion's changeful tide was toss'd;
Nor vice nor virtue had the power
Beyond the impression of the hour:-
And, Oh, when passion rules, how rare
The hours that fall to virtue's share!
O, TEACH him, while your lessons last,
To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursued,
How rich it glow'd with promis'd good;
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd,
How soon is hope's possession cloy'd!
The mind will in its worst despair,
Still ponder o'er the past,
On moments of delight that were
Too beautiful to last.
And is it that the haze of grief
Hath stretched my former joy so great?
The lowness of the present state,
That sets the past in this relief?
Or that the past will always win
A glory from its being far;
And orb into the perfect star
We saw not, when we moved therein?
Thou lov'st mankind! pray tell me then,
What history best excuses men?
Long wars for slight pretences_made,
See murder but a glorious trade;
Each landmark from the savage state,
Doth virtue or a vice create?
Thou lov'st mankind! come, tell me then
Lov'st thou the past career of men?
Thou unrelenting past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
And fetters sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.
Far in thy realm withdrawn,
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
And glorious ages gone,
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.
DOWN! stormy passions, down! no more
Let your rude waves invade the shore,
Where blushing reason sits, and hides
Her from the fury of your tides.
Fall easy patience, fall, like rest,
Whose soft spells charm a troubled breast!
And where those rebels you espy,
O! on your silken cordage tie
Their malice up! so shall I raise
Altars to thank your power, and praise
The sovereign virtue of your balm
Which rules a tempest by a calm.—Henry King.
Patience! why 't is the soul of peace!
Of all the virtues 't is nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit;
The first true gentleman that ever breathed.
Patience! for I have wrong,
And dare not shew wherein;
Patience shall be my song,
Since truth can nothing win.
Patience then for this fit,
Hereafter come not yet.
Of saints, the trial of their fortitude!
Making them each his own deliverer
And victor over all
That tyranny or fortune can inflict.
Celestial patience! how dost thou defeat
The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate;
While passion takes his part, betrays our peace,
To death and torture swells each slight disgrace;
By not opposing thou dost ills destroy,
And wear thy conquered sorrows into joy.
I SEE thee weep, and thine are honest tears,
A patriot's for his country. Thou art sad
At thought of her forlorn and abject state,
From which no power of thine can raise her up.
Cowper.
'Tis home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh,
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
Far dearer the grave or the prison,
Illumed by a patriot's name,
Than the trophies of all who have risen
On liberty's ruins to fame.
The patriot's meed is fame that never dies;
He needs no bard to strike the quivering string,
To sound his praises to the answering skies;
His glory, riding on time's ceaseless wing,
Soars far above oblivion's stream, that lies
Where the dull weeds of life are withering.Yes! he who seeks his country's good, will shine A sun that sets not, dimless and divine.
THE husband commits his body
To peaceful labour both by sea and land,
And craves no other tribute at thy hands,
But love, few looks, and true obedience,
Too little payment for so great a debt.-Shakspere.
1.-What a fine man,
Hath a tailor made you?
2. T is quite contrary,
I have made my tailor, for my clothes are paid for As soon as put on; a sin your man of title
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.-Young.
With a far more imperious stateliness,
Than all the swords of violence can do:
And easier gains those ends she tends unto.
In her days, every man shall eat in safety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry song of peace to all his neighbours.
Shakspere.
Men are unhappy when they know not how
To value peace, without its loss;
And from the want learn how to use
What they could so ill manage when enjoy'd.
Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet.
What is peace?-when pain is over
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover
That precedes the passing knell.- Wordsworth.
O! never yet did peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine,
Where earth's most precious things are bought and
Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be Despis'd, because unfit for merchantry.
The goodness of the heart is shown in deeds
Of peacefulness and kindness. Hand and heart
Are one thing with the good, as thou should'st be.
Do my words trouble thee? then treasure them;
Pain overgot gives peace, as death doth Heaven:
All things that speak of Heaven speak of peace.
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