Imatges de pÓgina

He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale
Into his freshen'd soul; her genial hours
He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows,

And not an opening blossom breathes in vain.

Thomson's Seasons-Autumn.

Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs
Of luxury, the syren! nor the bribes

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave

Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature fair imagination culls

To charm the enliven'd soul!

Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination, b. 3. Happiest of men! if the same soil invites A chosen few, companions of his youth, Once fellow-rakes, perhaps, now rural friends; With whom in easy commerce to pursue Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame : A fair ambition, void of strife or guile, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. 3.

Ye who amid this feverish world would wear
A body free of pain, of cares a mind;
Fly the rank city, shun the turbid air;
Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke
And volatile corruption, from the dead,
The dying, sick'ning, and the living world
Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome
With dim mortality.

Ibid. b. 1.

The love of nature, and the scenes she draws
Are nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found
Who self-imprison'd in their proud saloons,
Renounce the odours of the open field

For the unscented fictions of the loom.

Cowper's Task, b. 1.

Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd
Please daily, and whose novelty survives-
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.

Cowper's Task, b. 1.

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;
The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For such immeasurable woe appears,

These Flora banishes, and gives the fair

Sweet smiles and bloom less transient than her own.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds
Exhilarate the spirits, and restore

The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind.

God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then, that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught.
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threatened in the fields and

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful and successful war


Might never reach me more! My ear is pain'd,
My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report


wrong and outrage with which earth is fill’d.




Ibid. b. 2.

How various his employments, whom the world
Calls idle, and who justly in return
Esteems that busy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoyed at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim

Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad.

Cowper's Task, b. 3.

They love the country, and none else, who seek
For their own sake its silence and its shade:
Delights which who would leave, that has a heart
Susceptible of pity, or a mind

Cultured and capable of sober thought.

Ev'n in the stifling bosom of the town,


A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms
That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade or valerian, grace the wall
He cultivates.

But slighted as it is, and by the great
Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret,
Infected with the manners and the modes
It knew not once, the country wins me still.

Ibid. b. 4,

'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at such a world. To see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.

Meditation here



May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give an useful lesson to the head,

And learning wiser grow without his books.

Ibid. b. 6.

Half-way up

He built his house, whence by stealth he caught,
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life,

That soothed, not stirred.

Rogers' Italy.,


It wounds indeed,

To bear affronts too great to be forgiven,
And not have power to punish.

Dryden's Spanish Friar.

Give me my love, my honour, give 'em back!
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it!

Dryden's Don Sebastian.

My soul is up in arms, my injur'd honour,
Impatient of the wrong, calls for revenge.

Rowe's Lady Jane Grey, a. 2, s. 1.

Revenge, th' attribute of gods! they stamp'd it
With their great image on our natures.

Otway's Venice Preserved.

Destruction! swift destruction

Fall on my coward head, and make my name

The common scorn of fools, if I forgive him. Ibid.

Vengeance is still alive; from her dark covert
With all her snakes erect upon her breast,

She stalks in view, and fires me with her charms.

Young's Revenge, a. 2.

How stands the great account 'twixt me and vengeance? Tho' much is paid, yet still it owes me much;

And I will not abate a single groan.

And art thou dead? So is my enmity:

I war not with the dust.

Ibid. a. 5.


If cold white mortals censure this great deed,
Warn them, they judge not of superior beings,
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue. Young's Revenge, a. 5.

Patience! my soul disdains its stoic maxim,
The coward's virtue, and the knave's disguise :
Oh vengeance take me all, I'm wholly thine.

Beckingham's Henry IV. of France.

How rash, how inconsiderate is rage e!
How wretched, oh! how fatal is our error,
When to revenge precipitate we run !
Revenge, that still with double force recoils
Back on itself, and is its own revenge.
While to the short-liv'd, momentary joy,
Succeeds a train of woes, an age of torments.

Frowde's Philotas.

Come then, revenge, and with thee bring along
Thy barbarous racks, thy scorpions, daggers, whips,
The torch of discord, that 'twixt dearest friends,
'Twixt sisters, brothers, parents and their children,
Kindles eternal hate; at the dire blast

My nature shall be chang'd, and my hot blood
Turn into gall.

Barford's Virgin Queen.

What do they think me such a milky boy,
To pay my vengeance with a few soft words!

Thomson's Coriolanus, a. 3, s. 1.

I would consort with mine eternal enemy,
To be revenged on him.

Muturin's Bertram, a. 2, ș. 1.

His dame doth dwell alone-perchance his child—
Oh, no, no, no-it was a damned thought. Ibid.

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