There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, Byron's Childe Harold. Converse with nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd. But, 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, Byron's Childe Harold. No, 't is not here that solitude is known. Through the wide world he only is alone Who lives not for another. Rogers's Human Life. A child, 'midst ancient mountains have I stood, Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest On high. The spirit of the solitude Fell solemnly upon my infant breast, I am alone; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush Around me, as were met A crowd of viewless wings; I hear a gush Of utter'd harmonies. George W. Bethuns. Leave if thou would'st be lonely Leave Nature for the crowd; Though there I pray'd not; but deep thoughts have Seek there for one— - one only press'd Into my being since I breath'd that air, Nor could I now one moment live the guest With kindred mind endow'd! Thereas with Nature erst Closely thou would'st commune Of such dread scenes, without the springs of The deep soul-music nursed prayer O'erflowing all my soul. Mrs. Hemans's Poems. Oh! to lie down in wilds apart, Where man is seldom seen or heard, Mows not his scythe, ploughs not his share, O'er a lone heath, that spreads around, The wide-embracing sky its bound! Stretching for miles to lure the bee, Where the wild bird, on pinions strong, Wheels round and pours its piping song, And timid creatures wander free. Mary Howitt. Yon gentle hills, Rob'd in a garment of untrodden snow; Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower He goes to the river side, Nor hook nor line hath he: He stands in the meadows wide,Nor gun nor scythe to see; With none has he to d., And none to seek him, Nor men below Shelley. Nor spirits dim, What he knows nobody wants; What he knows he hides, not vaunts. Ralph W. Emerson. In either heart, attune! Heart-wearied thou wilt own, Vainly that phantom woo'd, That thou at least hast known What is true Solitude! Hoffman's Poems. These are the gardens of the desert, these As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows, fix'd And motionless for ever. Did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears I drink So deep of grief, that he must only think, Oh, be of comfort! Make patience a noble fortitude, And think not how unkindly we are us'd: Webster's Duchess of Malfy. Unkindness do thy office; poor heart break: Be of comfort, and your heavy sorrow Great sorrows have no leisure to complain: Blows given from heaven are our due punishment; All shipwrecks are not drownings; you see buildings Made fairer from their ruins. W. Rowley's New Wonder. Of all Sorrow lives with those whose pleasures add unte their sins. Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind A deep impression, e'en when she departs: When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping Sees the visions of fancy depart; And the heart throbs with passion's fierce strife, Look'd like a wither'd tree o'ergrown with moss; The heavenly Surgeon maims to save, His eyes were ever dropping icicles. He gives no useless pain. Randolph's Amyntas. Thomas Wa Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief, Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief; Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold! "Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unroll'd, Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, Doubtless in man there is a nature found, It seems their souls but in their senses are. That our souls, in reason, are immortal, Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the am- Which immortality and knowledge are. bient air. Rouse to some work of high and holy love, som, For to that object, ever is referr'd The nature of the soul; in which the acts How formless is the form of man, the soul! The fresh swelling fountain-their magic is How falsely call'd queen of this little world! When she's a slave, and subject not alone, o'er! When I list to the stream, when I look to the Unto the body's temperature, but all flowers, They tell of the Past, with so mournful a tone, That I call up the throngs of my long-vanish'd hours, And sigh that their transports are over and gone. Willis Gaylord Clark. SOUL. Why should we the busy soul believe, Some her chair up to the brain do carry; Some sink it down into the stomach's heat; To the soul time doth perfection give, crease; And what is strength but an effect in youth, The storms of fortune. 'Tis true that the souls May's Cleopatra Of all men are alike; of the same substance, Rutter's Shepherd's Holiday. They land, then straight are backward bound for home, And many are in storms of passion lost! William Davison's Rhapsody. Life is the triumph of our mould'ring clay; Death, of the spirit infinite! divine! Young's Night Thoughts, Is not the mighty mind, that son of heaven! And when they do reply, 'T would take an angel from above To paint th' immortal soul. Mrs. Welby's Poems. The soul once sav'd shall never cease from bliss, Nor God lose that He buyeth with His blood! Bailey's Festus. The soul, Advancing ever to the source of light And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss. Henry Ware, Jr. William Davison's Rhapsody. Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber never gives; George Herbert. There is, they say, (and I believe there is,) Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health. The soul on earth is an immortal guest, A spark, which upward tends by nature's force: The soul, of origin divine, frail, Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay; Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way To Heaven's high capitol our cars shall roll; The temple of the Power whom all obey, That is the mark we tend to, for the soul Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal. Percival's Prometheus. What, my soul, was thy errand here? Was it mirth or ease, Or heaping up dust from year to year? Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight, And steadily on thee through the night; Whittier's Poems. Hannah More. Oh, laggard soul! unclose thine eyes - Of joy ideal waste thyself: Awake, and soar aloft! Unfurl this hour those falcon wings Which thou dost fold too long; Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze, And sing thy loftiest song! Mrs. Osgood's Poems. Inward turn Mrs. Hemans's Siege of Valencia. Oh soul! I said, "thy boding murmurs cease; The soul, the mother of deep fears, Of high hopes infinite, Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, Of sleepless inner sight; Lovely, but solemn, it arose, Unfolding what no more might close. Mrs. Hemans's Poems. Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall, Thy Father's hand is guiding thee through all, His love will bring a true and perfect peace. Look upward once again; though drear the night, Earth may be darkness, Heaven will give thee light!" Mrs. Neal. |