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EXCELLENCE - MERIT-WORTH.
Angels attend thee! May their wings
Fan every shadow from thy brow-
For only bright and lovely things
Should wait on one so good as thou.
But there are deeds which should not pass away,
Aud names that must not wither.
Of many charms, to her as natural
As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean.
I think of thee, sweet lady, as of one
Too pure to mix with others, like some star
Shining in pensive beauty all alone,
Kindred with those around, yet brighter far.
MRS. A. B. WELBY.
The noble mind, unconscious of a fault,
No fortune's frowns can bend, or smiles exalt,
Like the firm rock, that in mid-ocean braves
The war of whirlwinds, and the dash of waves.
All oeaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart that is lovelier far;
It is not thy cheek-'t is the soul dawning clear-
Though its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear-
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is look'd up to more, because heaven is there!
One in whose love, I felt, were given
The mix'd delights of either sphere;
All that the spirit seeks in heaven,
And all the senses burn for here!
MOORE's Loves of the Angels.
The fame that a man wins himself, is best;
That he may call his own. Honours put on him
Make him no more a man than his clothes do,
Which are as soon ta'en off.
"T is now past midnight, and, by eight to-morrow, Thou must be made immortal.
If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.
See they suffer death;
But in their deaths remember they are men;
Strain not the laws to make their tortures grievous.
Slave do thine office!
Strike as I struck the foe! strike as I would
Have struck those tyrants! strike deep as my curse!
Strike-and but once!
These the last accents Hugo spoke,
"Strike:"-and flashing fell the stroke-
Roll'd the head, and, gushing, sunk
Back the stain'd and heaving trunk
In the dust, which each deep vein
Slak'd with its ensanguin'd rain;
His eyes and lips a moment quiver,
Convuls'd and quick-then fix for ever!
Nobody's healthful without exercise;
Just wars are exercises of a state;
Virtue's in motion, and contends to rise,
With generous ascents above a mate.
He does allot for every exercise
A several hour; for sloth, the nurse of vices,
And rust of action, is a stranger to him.
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
Finds the down-pillow hard.
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace,
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life that bloated ease can never hope to share.
BYRON'S Childe Harold.
Rise early, and take exercise in plenty,
But always take it with your stomach empty.
But be not long, for in the tedious minutes,
Exquisite interval, I'm on the rack;
For sure the greatest evil man can know,
Bears no proportion to this dread suspense.
Fell demon of our fears! the human soul,
That can support despair, supports not thee.
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims th' impatient heir, And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
Oh! how impatience gains upon the soul
When the long-promis'd hour of joy draws near!
How slow the tardy moments seem to roll!
What spectres rise of inconsistent fear!
MRS. TIGHE'S Psyche.
To the fond doubting heart, its hopes appear
Too brightly fair, too sweet to realize;
All seem but day dreams of delight too dear!
Strange hopes and fears in painful contest rise,
While the scarce-trusted bliss seems but to cheat the eyes
MRS. TIGHE'S Psyche
To wilful men,
The injuries that they themselves procure,
Must be their schoolmasters.
He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.
If wisdom's friend, her best; if not, worst foe.
Experience join'd to common sense,
To mortals is a providence.
Some positive, persisting fools we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;
you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last.
Experience, wounded, is the school
Where men learn piercing wisdom.
POPE'S Essay on Criticism.
O, teach him, while your lessons last,
To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursu'd,
How rich it glow'd with promis'd good;
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd,
How soon his hope's possession cloy'd!
For most men, till by losing render'd sager,
Will back their own opinions with a wager.
Her hopes ne'er drew
Aught from experience, that chill touchstone whose
Sad proof reduces all things from their hue.