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Permitted oft, tho' not inspir'd by Heaven,
Successful treasons punish impious kings.

Dr. Johnson's Irene.

Their eyes look fire on him who question them :
The hollow murmurs of their mutter'd wrath
Sound dreadful thro' the dark extended ranks,
Like subterranean grumblings of an earthquake.

Joanna Baillie's Basil, a. 4, s. 1.

The land is full of blood: her savage birds
O'er human carcases do scream and batten :
The silent hamlet smokes not; in the field
The aged grandsire turns the joyless soil:
Dark spirits are abroad, and gentle worth
Within the rarrow house of death is laid,
An early tenant.

Joanna Baillie's Ethwald, a. 3, s. 5.

I do despise these demagogues, that fret
The angry multitude: they are but as
The froth upon the mountain-wave-the bird
That shrieks upon the sullen tempest's wing.

Sir A. Hunt's Julian.

I know that there are angry spirits
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out
Muffled to whisper curses to the night;
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians,
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns.
Byron's Doge of Venice, a. 4, s. 1.

The sight

Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more,
As the first wine cup leads to the long revel;
And you will find a harder task to quell

Than urge them when they have commenced, but till
That moment a mere voice, a straw, a shadow,

Are capable of turning them aside. Ibid. a. 4, s. 2.

A spark creates the flame; 'tis the last drop
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full
Already. Byron's Doge of Venice, a. 5, s. 1.

Oh, men! ye must be ruled with scythes not sceptres,
And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest

Of discontents infecting the fair soil,

Making a desert of fertility.

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

He spake and to confirm his words, out flew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
Of mighty cherubim ; the sudden blaze
Far round illumin'd hell: highly they rag'd
Against the High'st, and fierce with grasped arms
Clash'd on their sounding shields the din of war,
Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.

But of this be sure,

To do aught good never will be our task,
But ever to do ill our sole delight,

As being the contrary to His high will,
Whom we resist.

The happier state

In Heav'n, which follows dignity, might draw
Envy from each inferior; but who here
Will envy whom the highest place exposes
Foremost to stand against the thund'rer's aim
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share
Of endless pain.

Ibid.

lbid. b. 2.

Rumour next, and chance,
And tumult and confusion all embroil'd,
And discord with a thousand various mouths.

Ibid.

N

What peace will be given

To us enslav'd, but custody severe,
And stripes, and arbitrary punishment
Inflicted? and what peace can we return,
But to our pow'r hostility and hate,
Untam'd reluctance, and revenge though slow,
Yet ever plotting how the conqu'ror least
May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice
In doing what we most in suffering feel?

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 2.

Is there no place,

Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission: and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
Th' omnipotent.

Ibid. b. 4.

The more the bold, the bustling, and the bad,
Press to usurp the reins of power, the more
Behoves it virtue, with indignant zeal,

To check their combination.

Thomson.

RELIGION.

Devotion in distress

Is born, but vanishes in happiness.

Dryden's Tyrannic Love.

Yet crowds will still believe, and priests will teach,

As wand'ring fancy, and as int'rest leads.

Rowe's Royal Convert, a. 1, s. 1.

Religious lustre is, by native innocence,
Divinely pure, and simple from all arts:
You daub and dress her like a common mistress,

The harlot of your fancies; and by adding

False beauties, which she wants not, make the world Suspect her angel's face is foul beneath,

And will not bear all lights.

Rowe's Tamerlane.

Oh! thou! dark, awful, vast, mysterious power
Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend:
If ignorant of thy new laws I stray,

-Shed, from thy distant Heav'n, where'er it shines,
One ray of guardian light, to clear my way:
And teach me first to find, then act, thy will.

Hill's Alzira.

What a reasonless machine

Can superstition make the reas'ner man.

Miller's Mahomet.

True religion

Is always mild, propitious, and humble;
Plays not the tyrant, plants no faith in blood,
Nor bears destruction on her chariot wheels;
But stoops to polish, succour, and redress,
And builds her grandeur on the public good.
Know,

Without or star, or angel, for their guide,
Who worship God, shall find him. Humble love,
And not proud reason, keeps the door of Heaven;
Love finds admission, where proud science fails.

Ibid.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 9.

Methinks it is not strange then, that I fled
The house of prayer, and made the lonely grove
My temple, at the foot of some old oak
Watching the little tribes that had their world
Within its mossy bark; or laid me down
Beside the rivulet whose murmuring

Was silence to my soul, and mark'd the swarm
Whose light-edged shadows on the bedded sand

268 RELIGION-REPENTANCE- REPUTATION.

Mirror'd their mazy sports; the insect hum,
The flow of waters and the song of birds
Making a holy music to mine ear:

Oh! was it strange, if for such scenes as these
Such deep devoutness, such intense delight
Of quiet adoration, I forsook

The house of worship?

Southey's Joan of Arc.

REPENTANCE.

Habitual evils change not on a sudden,
But many days must pass, and many sorrows:
Conscious remorse and anguish must be felt,
To curb desire, to break the stubborn will,
And work a second nature in the soul,
'Ere virtue can resume the place she lost.

Rowe's Ulysses.

Come, fair repentance, daughter of the skies!
Soft harbinger of soon returning virtue !
The weeping messenger of grace from Heav'n!

Brown's Athelstan.

Some, who offend from a suspicious nature,
Will afterward such fair confession make
As turns e'en the offence into a favour.

Joanna Baillie's De Monfort, a. 1, s. l.

Priest, spare thy words: I add not to my sins,
That of presumption, in pretending now
To offer up to Heaven the forc'd repentance
Of some short moments for a life of crimes.

Joanna Baillie's Orra, a. 5, s. 1.

REPUTATION.

O reputation! dearer far than life,

Thou precious balsam, lovely, sweet of smell, Whose cordial drops once spilt by some rash hand,

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