Mine after-life! what is mine after-life! My day is closed! the gloom of night is come! A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate. Joanna Baillie's Basil. Welcome rough war! with all thy scenes of blood; Be it what it may, or bliss or torment, I would have time turn'd backward in his course, Canst thou do this for me? Joanna Baillie's Rayner. Ɔ that I were upon some desert coast! Where howling tempests and the lashing tide Would stun me into deep and senseless quiet. Joanna Baillie's De Montford. Come, madness! come unto me, senseless death! I cannot suffer this! here, rocky wall, Scatter these brains, or dull them! Joanna Baillie's De Montford. O that I had been form'd An idiot from the birth! a senseless changeling, Who eats his glutton's meals with greedy haste, Nor knows the hand who feeds him! Joanna Baillie's De Montford. He hangs upon me like a dead man's grasp On the wreck'd swimmer's neck. Joanna Baillie's Ethwald. Full many a storm on this grey head has beat; And now, on my high station do I stand, Like the tired watchman in his rocked tower, Who looketh for the hour of his release. I'm sick of worldly broils, and fain would rest With those who war no more. Joanna Baillie's Ethwald. O night, when good men rest, and infants sleep! Thou art to me no season of repose, But a fear'd time of waking more intense, Of life more keen, of misery more palpable. Joanna Baillie's Ethwald. The fountain of my heart dried up within me,With nought that ioved me, and with nought to love 'stood upon ne desert earth alone. Thou sayest I am a wretch And thou sayest true-these weeds do witness itThese wave-worn weeds- these bare and bruised limbs. What would'st thou more? I shrink not from the question. I am a wretch, and proud of wretchedness, The wretched have no country; that dear name Maturin's Bertram. And in that deep and utter agony, Maturin's Bertram. The storm for Bertram!—and it hath been with me, Dealt with me branch and bole, bared me to th' roots, And where the next wave bears my perish'd trunk In its dread lapse, I neither know nor reck of. Maturin's Bertram Is there no forest, Whose shades are dark enough to shelter us; Or cavern rifted by the perilous lightning, Where we must grapple with the tenanting wolf To earn our bloody lair?— there let us bide, Nor hear the voice of man nor call of heaven. Maturin's Bertram. Behold me, earth! what is the life he hunts for? Come to my cave, thou human hunter, come; For thou hast left thy prey no other lair, But the bleak rock, or howling wilderness; Cheer up thy pack of fanged and fleshed hounds, Flash all the flames of hell upon its darkness, Then enter if thou darest. Lo, there the bruised serpent coils to sting thee, Yea, spend his life upon the mortal throe. Maturin's Bertram. Grey hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, And to be thus, eternally but thus, Having been otherwise! now furrow'd o'er Maturin's Bertram. With wrinkles plough'd by moments, not by years; Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or Think me not thankless — but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief. wishes, Or lurking love of something on the earth. Byron's Giaour. Byron's Manfred. My mother earth! Waste not thine orison, despair And thou fresh breaking day, and you, ye moun- I would not, if I might, be blest, tains! Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye! And thou the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight-thou shin'st not on my heart! Byron's Manfred. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? Look on me in my sleep, Or watch my watchings-co But peopled with the furies; - I have gnash'd Byron's Sardanapalus. Who thundering comes on blackest steed? With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed; In lash for lash, and bound for bound; Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung Byron's Giacur. Loud sung the wind above; and doubly loud, chain, And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. Beware of desperate steps! - the darkest day, Like one within a charnel cast, Cowper. I hear but dirges ringing for the dead- Mrs. E. Oakes Smith be that I shall forget my grief; may It may be time has good in store for me; It may be that my heart will find relief From sources now unknown. Futurity May bear within its folds some hidden spring From which will issue blessed streams; and yet Whate'er of joy the coming year may bring, The past the past — I never can forget. Mrs. Hale. I have given suck; and know How tender 't is to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, I said to Sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my breast, Rage on Shaks. Macbeth thou may'st destroy this form, And lay it low at rest; But still the spirit that now brooks Thy tempest raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks, With steadfast eye. DETRACTION. Mrs. Stoddard, 'T is not the wholesome sharp morality, Or modest anger of a satiric spirit, That hurts or wounds the body of a state; But the sinister application Of the malicious, ignorant, and base Jonson's Poetasier. Who stabs my name, would stab my person too, Did not the hangman's axe lic in the way. Crown's Henry VII. Happy are they that hear their detractions, And can put them to mending. DEVOTION-DIGNITY-DINNER-DISAPPOINTMENT-DISCONTENT. 139 Great honours are great burdens: but, on whom In any dignity; where, if he err, A most small praise, and that wrung out by force. Miss Barrett. And never lost when honours are withdrawn. Yet when the noontide comes, I know Massinger Maria Lowell, DINNER. (See FEASTING.) DISAPPOINTMENT.-(See GRIEF.) DEVOTION. One grain of incense with devotion offer'd, The immortal gods Accept the meanest altars that are raised Massinger. The hand is rais'd, the pledge is given, Like earth, awake, and warm, and bright With joy the spirit moves and burns; So up to thee! O Fount of Light! Our light returns. DIGNITY. John Sterling. I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities; As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: She is peevish, sullen, froward, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd Worthy Montano, you were wont to be civil; Did I request thee, maker, from my clay Thy terms so hard, by which I was to hold Milton's Paradise Lost. O, save to one familiar friend, Thy heart its veil should wear, As lightly as some star, Burns. Whose steady radiance changes not, Addison. Willis. Whittier. Southey. DISEASE. (See HEALTH.) I cannot bear to be with men Who only see my weaknesses; Who know not what I might have been, DISHONESTY.- (See THIEVES.) But scan my spirit as it is. Willis. It is not well to brood |