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whenever I strive for the reason my soul sinks away down and down into a depth that seems half air and half water, and I am like a man drownin' in a calm, and as he drowns, feelin' as if he were descendin' to the coral palaces o' the mermaids, where a' things are beautifu' but unintelligible, and after wanderin' about awhile under the saftly-looming climat, up again a' at ance into the every day world, in itself, o' a gude truth, as beautifu' and unintelligible too as any warld in the heavens above, or in the waters underneath the earth.
North. Posthumous fame!
Shepherd. What's mair nor ordinar' extrordinar' in that? We love our life, and we love our kind, and we love our earth, and we love ourselves. Therefore being immortal creatures, we love the thocht of never being forgotten by that kind, and in that life, and on that earth.
EVERY one that has been long dead has a due proportion of praise allotted to him, in which, while he lived, his friends were too profuse, and his enemies too sparing.
SOME with vast costly tombs would purchase it,*
We poets madder yet than all,
With a refined fantastic vanity,
Think we not only have but give eternity.
Who his to-morrow would bestow
For all old Homer's life, ev'n since he died till now.
No man ever attained lasting fame who did not on several occasions contradict the prejudices of popular opinion.
Can storied urn or animated bust
IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Thy springs, and dying gales;
O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers stealing through the dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
The pensive pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain
And hamlets brown, and dim discover'd spires;
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
And rudely rends thy robes:
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
To hear the lark begin his flight,
While the cock, with lively din,
While the ploughman near at hand,
THE rising of the sun has the same effect on me as it is said to have had on the celebrated statue of Memnon; and I never observe that glorious luminary breaking out upon me that I do not find myself harmonised for the whole day.
FITZOSBORNE. Letters, Letter LI.
THUS wore out night; and now the herald lark
Paradise Regained, Book II.
UPON a summer Sunday morn
The rising sun owre Galston muirs
BURNS. The Holy Fair.
THUS, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still
* As when a windy tempest bloweth hye,
That nothing may withstand his stormy stowre
Ending on the rustling leaves
With minute drops from off the eaves.
MILTON. I Penseroso.
Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand
Unbarr'd the gates of light.
Paradise Lost, Book VII.
THUS pass'd the night so foul, till morning fair
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried
O Nature, how in every charm supreme! *
Pleasure from the View of Nature.
Ripening harvest rushes in the gate.
A glorious sight, if glory dwells below,
That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning's round,
Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod,
BLOOMFIELD. Farmer's Boy.