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Hast thou talked with the blessed, of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?
Hast thou witness'd the angel's bright employ,
Then mayst thou speak of a mother's joy.

Evening and morn hast thou watch'd the bee
Go forth on her errands of industry?
The bee for herself hath gather'd and toil'd,
But the mother's cares are all for her child.

Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar, From pole to pole, and from star to star?

Thou hast

but on ocean, earth, or sea, The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.

And ever since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,

To win them back from the love they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.

There are teachings on earth, and sky, and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare!
But more loud than the voice beneath, above,
He is heard to speak through a mother's love.

EMILY TAYLOR.

It is very doubtful, if in any department of human operations, real kindness ever compromised real dignity.

LOCKHART.

PAST and future, are the wings

On whose support, harmoniously conjoin'd
Moves the great Spirit of human knowledge.

SHUN delays, they breed remorse;

Take thy time, while time is lent thee; Creeping snails have weakest force,

Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee. Good is best, when soonest wrought, Ling'ring labours come to nought.

Hoist up sail while gale doth last,

Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure:
Seek not time, when time is past,
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure.
After-wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks before,

Take thou hold upon his forehead;

When he flies he turns no more,

And behind his scalp is naked. Works adjourn'd have many stays; Long demurs breed new delays.

Y

Seek thy salve while sore is green,
Fester'd wounds ask deeper lancing :
After-cures are seldom seen,

Often sought, scarce ever chancing,
Time and place give best advice,
Out of season, out of price.

SOUTHWELL.

PHILOSOPHY is a Goddess, whose head is indeed in Heaven, but whose feet are upon Earth. She attempts more than she accomplishes, and promises more than she performs. She can teach us to hear of the calamities of others with magnanimity; but it is Religion only, that can teach us to bear our own with resignation.

COLTON.

COME, RESIGNATION, with uplifted brow,
And eye of rapture, smiling though in tears;
Come, for thou lov'st the silent house of woe,
When no fond friend th' abandon'd mansion cheers.

Come, for 'tis thine to soothe the Mourner's smart,
The throbs of hopeless anguish to controul,
With healing balm to point Death's levell'd dart,
And melt in Heavenly dreams the parting soul.

BEATTIE.

FAME, they tell you, is air: but without air there is no life for any; without fame there is none for the best.

LANDOR.

MODERATION learn,

Which, like the stealing touch of gentle time
O'er canvas, pencil'd by excelling art,
Smooths glaring colours, and imparts a grace
To mightiest heroes. Thus their dazzling blaze
Of glory soft'ning, softens envy's eye.

GLOVER.

LEARNING is like a river, whose head being far in the land, is, at first rising, little, and easily viewed ; but still as you go, it gapeth with a wider bank; not without pleasure and delightful winding; while it is on both sides set with trees, and the beauties of various flowers. But still the farther you follow it, the deeper and the broader it is; till at last it enwaves itself in the unfathomed ocean. There you see more water, but no shore, no end of that liquid, fluid vastness. In many things we may sound Na

ture in the shallows of her revelations. We may trace her to her second causes; but beyond them, we meet with nothing but the puzzle of the soul, and the dazzle of the mind's dim eyes.

FELTHAM.

QUIET to quick bosoms is a hell:

there is a fire

And motion of the soul which will not dwell

In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

Their breath is agitation, and their life
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
And yet so nurs'd and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

BYRON.

THE debt which a man of liberal education owes to the great minds of former ages is incalculable. They have guided him to truth. They have filled his mind with noble and graceful images. They have stood by him in all vicissitudes, comforters in sorrow, nurses in sickness, companions in solitude. These friendships are exposed to no danger from the

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