And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage
To the new race of unborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be free, Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena, where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. Byron's Childe Harold.
Oh! where is the spirit of yore, The spirit that breathed in thy dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before, And honour the passion that led? Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep, They groan from the place of their rest, And wrathfully murmur, and suddenly weep To see the foul stain on thy breast:
For where is the glory they left thee in trust? 'Tis scatter'd in darkness, 't is trampled in dust. Byron.
- Ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls her Timothy Dwight.
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard.
Shaks. Cymbeline. 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running 'fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of the world; No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies, Not all these laid in bed majestical
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill'd, and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread. Shaks. Henry V.|
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
How many thousands of my poorest subjects, Are at this hour asleep! O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge; And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billow by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part Il Boy! Lucius!-Fast asleep? It is no matter: Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber : Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
Shaks. Julius Cæsar To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses, As infants empty of all thought.
Shaks. Troilus and Cressida She bids you
Upon the wanton rushes lay you down, And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you, And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep, As is the difference 'twixt day and night.
Shaks. Henry IV. Parti As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour, When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones. Shaks. Mea. for Mea
Come sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe; The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low. Sir P. Sidney.
How happy is that balm to wretches, sleep! No cares perplex them for their future state, And fear of death thus dies in senseless sleep; Unruly love is this way lull'd to rest; And injur'd honour, when redress is lost, Is no way solv'd but this.
Beaumont's Queen of Corinth.
So sleeps the sea-boy on the cloudy mast, Safe as a drowsy Triton rock'd with storms, While tossing princes wake in beds of down. Lee's Mithridates. His sleep
Was airy, light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate vapours bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and running rills (Aurora's fan,) Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song Of birds on every bough.
O, ye immortal powers that guard the just, Watch round his couch, and soften his repose, Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul With easy dreams; remember all his virtues, And show mankind that goodness is your care! Addison's Cato.
In thee, oppressors soothe their angry brow: In thee, th' oppress'd forget tyrannic pow'r; In thee,
The wretch condemn'd is equal to his judge And the sad lover to his cruel fair; Nay, all the shining glories men pursue, When thou art wanted, are but empty noise. Sir R. Steel's Lying Lovers.
Tir'd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes: Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
Man's rich restorative; his balmy bath, 'That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play The various movements of this nice machine, Which asks such frequent periods of repair. When tir'd with vain rotations of the day, Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn; Fresh we spin on, till sickness clogs our wheels, Or death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends. Young's Night Thoughts.
Has strok'd my drooping lids, and promises My long arrear of rest; the downy god (Wont to return with our returning peace) Will pay, ere long, and bless me with repose. Young's Night Thoughts.
The noon of night is past, and gentle sleep, Which friendly waits upon the labour'd hind, Flies from the embraces of a monarch's arms; The mind disturb'd denies the body rest. Slade's Love and Duty.
The only boon the wretched mind can feel; A momentary respite from despair.
Murphy's Alzuma. The shades descend, and midnight o'er the world Expands her sable wings. Great nature droops Through all her works. Now happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid powerless limbs diffus'd A pleasing lassitude; he not in vain Invokes the gentle deity of dreams. His powers the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose: On him the balmy dews Of sleep with double nutriment descend.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health.
The murmuring wind, the moving leaves Lull'd him at length to sleep, With mingled lullabies of sight and sound. Southey's Thalaba,
Oh! thou best comforter of that sad heart, Whom fortune's spite assails; come, gentle sleep, The weary mourner soothe! For well the art Thou knowest in soft forgetfulness to steep The eyes which sorrow taught to watch and weep; Let blissful visions now her spirit cheer, Or lull her cares to peace in slumbers deep, Till, from fatigue refresh'd and anxious fear, Hope, like the morning star, once more shall re- Mrs. Tighe's Psyche. And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe Lull'd like the deep of ocean when at rest, Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest.
The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; The courteous host, and all approving guest, Again to that accustom'd couch must creep, Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, And man o'erlabour'd with his being's strife, Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life: There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile, O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. What better name may slumber's bed become? Night's sepulchre, the universal home,
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, Alike in naked helplessness recline;
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. Byron's Lara.
Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be) Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.
O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd Restraint! imprison'd liberty! great key To golden palaces—ay, all the world Of silvery enchantment!
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half hidden like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees In fancy fair St. Agnes in her bed,
The oblivious world of sleep- That rayless realm where Fancy never beams, That nothingness beyond the land of dreams. Mrs. S. A. Lewis's Child of the Sea.
Rest for the weary-freshness, strength and rest: O sleep! thy balm is to the troubled breast As time to sorrow. Gently dost thou take The arrows from the heart about to break, And with thy stealthy step and quiet eye,
But dares not look behind or all the charm is fled. Around thee couch in grateful ministry,
Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her smoothed limbs, and soul fatigued away, Flown, like a thought until the morrow day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal, where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Keats's Eve of St. Agnes.
Thy form as noiseless as the foot of love, Doth like the spirit of an angel move.
Life may not be without thee, gentle sleep, But with thee,-'mid the desert-on the deep- Still to the care-worn heart some joy remains, Some sunny spot amid thy mystic plains.
But this is worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit like myself.
I am ill; but your being by me,
Cannot amend me: society is no comfort
Without good company, all dainties
Lose their true relish, and, like painted grapes, Are only seen, not tasted.
Among unequals what society
Can sort, what harmony or true delight.
Man, like the generous vine, supported lives: The strength he gains is from th' embrace he gives. On their own axis as the planets run, Massinger. Yet make at once their circle round the sun; So two consistent notions act the soul; And one regards itself, and one the whole. Milton's Paradise Lost. Thus God and nature link'd the general frame, And bade self-love and social be the same. Pope's Essay on Man, Heaven forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call,
That fellowship in pain divides not smart, Nor lightens aught each man's peculiar load. Milton's Paradise Regained. Hail, social life! into thy pleasing bounds Again I come to pay the common stock, My share of service, and, in glad return, To taste thy comforts, thy protected joys. Thomson's Agamemnon. Meantime the song went round and dance and sport,
Wisdom and friendly talk successive stole Their hours away.
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common interest, or endear the tie. To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here.
Pope's Essay on Man Society itself, which should create Kindness, destroys what little we had got: To feel for none is the true social art Of the world's stoics-men without a heart.
Byron. Society is now one polish'd horde, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the bores and bor’d. Byron. Blessed we sometimes are! and I am now Happy in quiet feelings; for the tones Of a most pleasant company of friends Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts From spirits whose high character I know; And I retain their influence, as the air Retains the softness of departed day.
And dreads their coming; they,-what can they I have sped by land and sea, and mingled with less?
never yet could find a spot unsunned by human kindness;
Some more, and some less,-but, truly, all can claim a little :
With shrug and grimace hide their hate of her. But Cowper's Task. Though few the days, the happy evenings few, So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my full soul forgot its wish to roam, And rested there, as in a dream at home!
And a man may travel through the world, and sow it thick with friendships.
Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy
Her father lov'd me; oft invited me; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' th' imminent deadly
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history: Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle,
And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety.
His sword (death's stamp)
Where it did mark, it took; from face to fool He was a thing of block, whose every motion Was tim'd with dying cries.
Shaks. Coriolanus. Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night: Let's teach ourselves that honourable stop, Not to outsport discretion. His death, whose spirit lent a fire Even to the dullest peasant in his camp, Being bruted once, took fire and heat away From the best temper'd courage in his troops: For from his metal was his party steel'd; Which once in him abated, all the rest Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead. Shaks. Henry IV. Part II
You say you are a better soldier;
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well: For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum, And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces. Shaks. Merchant of Venice.
I hate these potent madmen, who keep all Mankind awake, while they by their great deeds
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch Are drumming hard upon this hollow world,
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