Those tender tears that humanize the soul,
The sigh that charms, the pang that gives delight.
Thomson's Agamemnon, a. 5, s. 3.

So many great

Illustrious spirits have convers'd with woe,
Have in her school been taught, as are enough
To consecrate distress, and make ambition
Ev'n wish the frown beyond the smile of fortune.
Thomson's Sophonisba, a. 1, s. 4.

Thou look'st a very statue of surprise,
As if a lightning blast had dried thee up,
And had not left thee moisture for a tear.

Martyn's Timoleon.

'Tis impotent to grieve for what is past, And unavailing to exclaim.

Havard's Scanderbeg.

Whole years of joy glide unperceiv'd away,

While sorrow counts the minutes as they pass. Ibid.

There oft is found an avarice in grief;
And the wan eye of sorrow loves to gaze
Upon its secret hoard of treasur'd woes
In pining solitude.

Mason's Elfrida.

I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat
As it would strangle me; such as I felt,
I knew it well, some twenty years ago,
When my good father shed his blessing on me :
I hate to weep, and so I came away.

Joanna Baillie's Basil, a. 3, s. 1.

I'll do whate'er thou wilt, I will be silent :
But O! a reined tongue, and bursting heart,
Are hard at once to bear.

Ibid. a. 4, s. 5.

We remark the hollow eye, the wasted frame,
The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men,
But do not know the cause.

Joanna Baillie's De Montford, a. 1, s. 2.

He died that death which best becomes a man,
Who is with keenest sense of conscious ill
And deep remorse assail'd, a wounded spirit.
A death that kills the noble and the brave,
And only them. He had no other wound.

Ibid, a. 4, s. 5.

Heaven oft in mercy smites ev'n when the blow
Severest is.

Joanna Baillie's Orra, a. 5, s. 2

He did nought but sigh,

If I might judge by the high-heaving vesture
Folded so deep on his majestic breast ;-

Of sound I heard not. Maturin's Bertram, a. 2, s. 3.

No future hour can rend my heart like this,

Save that which breaks it.

Ibid. a. 3, s. 2.

A malady

Ibid. a. 4, s, 2,

Preys on my heart, that medicine cannot reach,

Invisible and cureless.

Half of the ills we hoard within our hearts,
Are ills because we hoard them.

Proctor's Mirandola, a. 4, s. 1.

My slumbers-if I slumber-are not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought,
Which then I can resist not: in my heart
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close
To look within; and yet I live, and bear
The aspect and the form of breathing men.
But grief should be the instructor of the wise;
Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth,
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

Byron's Manfred, a. 1, s. 1.

Look on me! there is an order

Of mortals on the earth, who do become
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,
Without the violence of warlike death;
Some perishing of pleasure-some of study-
Some worn with toil-some of mere weariness-
Some of disease-and some insanity-
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts;
For this last is a malady which slays
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate,
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.

Byron's Manfred, a. 3, s. 1. Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

Byron's Two Foscari, a. 4, s. 1.

There comes

For ever something between us and what

We deem our happiness.

Byron's Sardanapalus, a. 1, s. 2.

Despond not wherefore wilt thou wander thus
To add thy silence to the silent night,

And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars?

They cannot aid thee.

Byron's Heaven and Earth, part 1, s. 2.

O might I here

In solitude live savage, in some glade

Obscur'd, where highest woods impenetrable
To star or sun-light, spread their umbrage broad
And brown as evening: cover me ye pines,
Ye cedars, with innumerable boughs

Hide me, where I may never see them more.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 9

On the ground

Outstretch'd he lay, on the cold ground, and oft
Curs'd his creation, death as oft accus'd

Of tardy execution.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 10.

O woods, O fountains, hillocks, dales, and bowers,
With other echo late I taught your shades
To answer, and resound far other song.

Some weep
in perfect justice to the dead,
As conscious all their love is in arrear.

Ibid.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 5.

Some weep to share the fame of the deceas'd,
So high in merit, and to them so dear.

They dwell on praises, which they think they share;
And thus, without a blush, commend themselves.

Who fails to grieve, when just occasion calls,
Or grieves too much, deserves not to be blest;
Inhuman, or effeminate, his heart.

Grief,

Ibid.

Ibid, n. 9.

Of life impatient, into madness swells;
Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.
Thomson's Seasons-Spring.

But who can paint the lover, as he stood,
Pierc'd by severe amazement, hating life,
Speechless, and fix'd in all the death of woe!
So, faint resemblance, on the marble tomb,
The well-disembled mourner stooping stands,
For ever silent, and for ever sad.

Ibid.-Summer.

But see! the well-plum'd hearse comes nodding on,
Stately and slow; and properly attended
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch
The sick man's door, and live upon the dead,

By letting out their persons by the hour
To mimic sorrow, when the heart's not sad.

Blair's Grave.

And all clung round him, weeping bitterly;
Weeping the more because they wept in vain.

Rogers's Italys

Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

GUILT.

Byron's Dream.

Let no man trust the first false step

Of guilt, it hangs upon a precipice,

Whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

Young's Busiris.

That men should dare to do,

What done, must make the doer wretched!

Phillips's Duke of Gloucester.
He that acts unjustly,

Is the worst rebel to himself, and tho' now
Ambition's trumpet and the drum of pow'r
May drown the sound, yet conscience will, one day,
Speak louder to him. Havard's King Charles I.

O what a state is guilt! how wild! how wretched!
When apprehension can form naught but fears,
And we distrust security herself! Havard's Regulus.

Such is the fate of guilt, to make slaves tools,
And then to make 'em masters-by our secrets. Ibid.

The guilty mind
Debases the great image that it wears,
And levels us with brutes.

Havard's Scanderbeg.