314

GRIEF-TEARS - WEEPING.

Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own.

BYRON'S Chile Harold

So madly shrill, so piercing wild.

BYRON'S Parisina.

Howe'er our stifled tears we banish,
When struggling as they rise to start,
We check those waters of the heart,
They are not dried--those tears unshed,—
But flow back to the fountain head,
And, resting in their spring more pure,
For ever in its depths endure,

Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd,

And cherish'd most when least reveal'd.

Not one sigh shall tell my story,

Not one tear my cheek shall stain;
Silent grief shall be my glory-

Grief, that stoops not to complain!

The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,
The wreck by passion "left behind,
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf,
Scar'd by the autumn blast of grief.

BYRON'S Parisina.

Mrs. ROBINSON.

BYRON'S Giaour.

Away! we know that tears are vain,
That death ne'er heeds nor hears distress;
Will this unteach us to complain,

Or make one mourner weep the less?

Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear,
In woman's eye, the unanswerable tear!
That weapon of her weakness, which can wield
To save-subdue-at once her spear and shield.

BYRON.

BYRON'S Corsar

GRIEF-TEARS - WEEPING.

There is no darkness like the cloud of mind
On grief's vain eye-the blindest of the blind,
Which may not, dare not see, but turns aside
To blackest shade, nor will endure a guide.

515

BYRON'S Corsair,

Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charg'd with unshed tears.

BYRON'S Dream.

For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.

CAMPBELI.

The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears:
The flower is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.
SCOTT's Lady of the Lake.

The heavy sigh,

The tear in the half-open'd eye,

The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd
That grief was busy in his breast.

SCOTT'S Rokeby.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser-care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear!

He hung his head-each nobler aim,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence !
In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt may know!

BURNS

MOORE'S Lalla Rookk.

316

GUILT SIN - VICE.

Tears-floods of tears

Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills
Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills,
And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost,

Through valleys where their flow had long been lost.

The blight of hope and happiness

Is felt when fond ones part,
And the bitter tear that follows, is
The life-blood of the heart.

When all that in absence we dread

MOORE'S Lalla Rookh

FITZ-GREEN HALLECK

Is past, and forgotten 's our pain,
How sweet is the tear we at such moments shed,
When we see the sweet object again!

R. WILLIS

GUILT SIN-VICE.

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our wo.

MILTON'S Paradise Lost.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;
The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

It is great sin to swear unto a sin,

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEARE.

Guiltiness would speak, tho' tongues were out of use.

Serpents, though they feed

SHAKSPEARE.

On sweetest flowers, yet do poisons breed.

SHAKSPEARE

GUILT SIN - VICE.

Our sins, like to our shadows,

When our day's in its glory, scarce appear;
Towards our evening, how great and monstrous!

817

SUCKLING.

How guilt, once harbour'd in the conscious breast,
Intimidates the brave, degrades the great!

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen;
But, seen too oft, familiar to the face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

DR. JOHNSON.

POPE'S Essay on Man.

Where, where, for shelter shall the guilty fly,
When consternation turns the good man pale?

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

Ah me! from real happiness we stray,
By vice bewilder'd; vice, which always leads,
However fair at first, to wilds of wo.

THOMSON'S Agamemnon.

Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied words of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

BYRON'S Childe Harola.

Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape

'The fascination of thy magic gaze?

A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,

And mould to every taste thy dear, delusive shape!

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

To what gulfs

A single deviation from the track

Of human duties leads!

BYRON'S Sardanapalus.

'Thou need'st not answer; thy confession speaks,

Already redd'ning in thy guilty cheeks.

BYRON'S Corsair.

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes, night and day too, like the sky:
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness, and destruction, as on high;
But when it hath been scorch'd and pierc'd and riven
Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye

Pours forth, at last, the heart's blood turn'd to tears.

To me she gave her heart-that all

Which tyranny cannot enthral.

BYRON'S Don Juan.

BYRON'S Giaour

BYRON'S Corsunr.

Worm-like 't was trampled, adder-like aveng'd.

His heart was all on honour bent,

He could not stoop to love;

No lady in the land had power
His frozen heart to move