My desolation does begin to make
A better life: 'Tis paltry to be Cæsar;
Not being fortune, he 's but fortune's knave,
A minister of her will; and it is great
To do that thing that ends all other deeds;

Our pride contemns; so we have less t'annihilate Our own, when it is fall'n in our dislike.

Sir W. Davenant's Distresses

Self-murder, that infernal crime,
Which all the gods level their thunder at!
Fane's Sacrifice

Let us seek death, or, he not found, supply
With our own hand his office on ourselves:
Why stand we shivering longer under fears,
That show no end but death, and have the power
Of many ways to die, the shortest choosing,
Destruction with destruction to destroy.

Milton's Paradise Lost.

He who, superior to the checks of nature,
Dares make his life the victim of his reason,
Does in some sort that reason deify,
And take a flight at heav'n.

Young's Revenge.

Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra. He is dead;

Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand

Not by the public minister of justice,

Which writ his honour in the acts it did,

rush

On voluntary death: the wise, the brave,

When the fierce storms of fortune round 'em roar Combat the billows with redoubled force:

Then, if they perish ere the port is gain'd,

Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra. Death is not free for any man's election, 'Till nature, or the law impose it on him. Chapman's Cæsar and Pompey.

He

That kills himself, t' avoid mis'ry, fears it;
And at the best shows but a bastard valour :
This life's a fort committed to my trust,
Which I must not yield up, till it be forc'd;
Nor will I he's not valiant that dares die;
But he that boldly bears calamity.

Massinger's Maid of Honour.
'Tis not courage, when the darts of chance
Are thrown against our state, to turn our backs,
And basely run to death; as if the hand
Of heaven and nature had lent nothing else
T'oppose against mishap, but loss of life:
Which is to fly, and not to conquer it.

Jonson's Adrasta. When affliction thunders o'er our roofs; To hide our heads, and run into our graves, Shows us no men, but makes us fortune's slaves. Jonson's Adrasta.

Fenton's Mariamne. Our time is set and fix'd; our days are told; And no man knows the limit of his life; This minute may be mine, the next another's; But still all mortals ought to wait the summons, And not usurp on the decrees of fate, By hastening their own ends.

Smith's Princess of Parma.

Venture not rashly on an unknown being-
E'en the most perfect shun the brink of death,
And shudder at the prospect of futurity.

Savage's Sir Thomas Overbury
What beck'ning ghost along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gor'd?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh! ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's, or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die i
Pope

Our time is fix'd; and all our days are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not: this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till heaven shall give permission.
Like sentries that must keep their destin'd stand,
And wait th' appointed hour, till they're reliev'd.
Those only are the brave who keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away
Is but a coward's trick: to run away
From this world's ills, that at the very worst
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
By boldly venturing on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark! 't is mad:
No frenzy half so desperate as this.

SUMMER.

Then came the jolly summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock colour'd green,
That was unlined all, to be more light,
And on his head a garland well beseene
He wore, from which, as he had chaffed been,
The sweat did drop, and in his hand he bore
A bow and shafts, as he in forest green
Had hunted late the libbard or the boar,
And now would bathe his limbs, with labour
heated sore.
Spenser's Fairy Queen.
Now comes thy glory in the summer months,
With light and heat refulgent.

Thomson

Fool! I mean not That poor-soul'd piece of heroism, self-slaughter: Oh no! the miserablest day we live There's many a better thing to do than die!

George Darley.

Let it not be said

He sougat his God in the self-slayer's way. Bailey's Festus.

Mrs. Hemans.

I dread to see the summer sun
Come glowing up the sky,
And early pansies, one by one,
Opening the violet eye:

They speak of one who sleeps in death,

Her race untimely o'er.

Mrs. Whitman.

Mrs. Whitman.

Nor longer in the lingering light
Of summer eve, shall we,
Lock'd hand in hand, together sit
Beneath the greenwood tree.
The Spring's gay promise melted into thee,
Fair Summer! and thy gentle reign is here;
Thy emerald robes are on each leafy tree;

In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear;

All the world's bravery that delights our eyes,
Is but thy several liveries;

Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st,

Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou
go'st.
Cowley.
Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea,
Which open all their pores to thee,
Like a clear river thou dost glide,
And with thy living stream through the close
channel slide.
Cowley.

Blest power of sunshine! genial day,

Thus gazing on thy void and sapphire sky,
O, Summer! in my inmost soul arise
Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply,
And the bland air with its soft melodies;
Till basking in some vision's glorious ray,
I long for eagles' plumes to flee away!

SUN.

Know'st thou not,

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage, bloody here;
But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their
backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves!
Shaks. Richard II.

I marvel not, O sun! that unto thee,
In adoration, man should bow the knee,
And pour the prayer of mingled awe and love;
For like a God thou art, and on thy way
Of glory sheddest, with benignant ray,
Beauty and life, and joyance from above.

Angel of light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

Moore.

Moore's Lalla Rookh.

Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,
Which gladden'd, on their mountain-tops, the
hearts

Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd
Themselves in orisons! Thou material God!
And representative of the unknown-
Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star!

Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues

And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for near or far,
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects; · thou dost rise,
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well'
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance
Of love and wonder was for thee, tnen take
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone:
I follow.

Byron's Manfred

508

Would that yon orb, whose matin glow
Thy listless eyes so much admire,
Did lend thee something of his fire!
Byron's Bride of Abydos.
But yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow,
Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now, apparent all,
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colour'd air,
He looks in boundless majesty abroad;
And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wand'ring
streams,

High gleaming from afar.

Centre of light and energy! thy way

Thomson.

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning and evening, and the close of day,

Far in the blue, untended, and alone:

Ere the first waken'd airs of earth had blown, On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light; Then thou didst send thy glance, which still hath flown

Wide through the never-ending worlds of night,
And yet thy keen orb burns with flash as keen
and bright.
Percival's Poems.
The summer day has closed-the sun is set;
Well have they done their office, those bright hours,
The latest of whose train goes softly out
In the red West.

Bryant's Poems.

SUPERSTITION.

England a happy land we know,
Where follies naturally grow,
Where without culture they arise,
And tow'r above the common size;
England a fortune-telling host,
As num'rous as the stars could boast,
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of fate in grounds of tea.
Gypsies, who every ill can cure,
Except the ill of being poor,
Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell,
Who can in hen-roost set a spell,
Prepar'd by arts, to them best known,
To catch all feet except their own,
Who as to fortune can unlock it,
As easily as pick a pocket.

"Tis a history

Churchill

Churchill.

Handed from ages down; a nurse's tale-
Which children, open-ey'd and mouth'd, devour;
And thus as garrulous ignorance relates,
We learn it and believe.

Southey's Thalaba

We may smile, or coldly sneer,
The while such ghostly tales we hear,-
And wonder why they were believ'd,
And how wise men could be deceiv'd :-

Bathing our renovated sight

In the free Gospel's glorious light,
We marvel it was ever night!

Mrs. Hale's Vigil of Love
'Tis Christian science makes our day,
And freedom lends her lovely ray;
And we forget 'neath our fair skies,
The world that still in shadow lies;-
That India bows to Juggernaut ;-
And China worships gods of clay;
And healing amulets are bought,
Even where our Saviour's body lay;
And holy miracles are wrought

Beneath St. Peter's cross-crown'd sway;
And over Afric's wide domain

The powers of Death and Darkness reign!
Mrs. Hale's Vigil of Love.