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FOR women first were made for men,
Not men for them : It follows, then,
That men have right to every one,
And they no freedom of their own;
And therefore men have power to choose,
But they no charter to refuse.

S. BUTLER (Hudibras).


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The sun had long since, in the lap
Of Thetis, taken out his nap,
And, like a lobster boiled, the morn
From black to red began to turn.

S. BUTLER (Hudibras).
'Tis true, our modern way of war
Is grown more politic by far,
But not so resolute and bold,
Nor tied to honour as the old.
For now they laugh at giving battle,
Unless it be to herds of cattle,
Or fighting convoys of provision,
The whole design o' the expedition.

For 'tis not now, who's stout and bold ?
But who bears hunger best and cold ?
And he's approved the most deserving
Who longest can hold out at starving :
And he that routs most pigs and cows
The formidablest man of prowess.
So th' emperor Caligula,
That triumphed o'er the British sea
Took crabs and oysters prisoners,
And lobsters, 'stead of cuirassiers;
Engaged his legions in fierce bustles,
With periwinkles, prawns and mussels,
And led his troops with furious gallops,
To charge whole regiments of scallops ;
Not like their ancient way of war,
To wait on his triumphal car ;
But when he went to dine or sup,
More bravely ate his captives up,
And left all war, by his example,
Reduced to victualling of a camp well.

S. BUTLER (Hudibras).

God bless the King !-I mean the Faith's Defender ;
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender !
But who Pretender is, or who is King,
God bless us all !—that 's quite another thing.

J. BYROM. 142. ALAS! THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ALAS! the love of women! it is known

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ;
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,

And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone,

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.


143. AVE MARIA AVE Maria! blessèd be the hour !

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer !

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above !
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove-
What though 'tis but a pictured image strike,
That painting is no idol, —’tis too like.

LORD BYRON (Don Juan).

144. MAN'S LOVE A THING APART Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

And few there are whom these cannot estrange ;
Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone.


OH, talk not to me of a name great in story ;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ?
'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled.
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary !
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
Oh Fame !—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ;

Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.



Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies

His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth :—there let him lay.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :—not so thou ;
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play,

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow :
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

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Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time,-
Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of eternity, the throne
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

LORD BYRON (Childe Harold's Pilgrimage).


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes :
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face ;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent !


So we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.


149. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail : And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !



The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.

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