Flush'd by the spirit of the genial year,
Now from the virgin's cheek a fresher bloom
Shoots, less and less, the live commotion round;
Her lips blush deeper sweets; she breathes of youth;
The shining moisture swells into her eyes,
In brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves,
With palpitations wild; kind tumults seize
Her veins, and all her yielding soul is love.
Young's Night Thoughts, n. 3.
From the moist meadow to the withered hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And swells, and deepens; to the cherish'd eye
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd,
In full luxuriance to the sighing gales.
Reviving sickness lifts her languid head;
Life flows afresh; and young ey'd health exalts
The whole creation round. Contentment walks
The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss
Spring o'er his mind, beyond the power of kings
To purchase.
Thus pass'd the time,
Till thro' the lucid chambers of the south
Look'd out the Spring, look'd out, and smil'd.
Thomson's Seasons-Winter.
Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And every sense, and every heart is joy.
He that seeks safety in a statesman's pity,
May as well run a ship upon sharp rocks,
And hope a harbour.
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd
A pillar of state; deep on his front engraven
Deliberation sat and public care;.
And princely counsel in his face yet shone,
Majestic though in ruin. Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 8.
Had I miscarried, I had been a villain;
For men judge actions alway by events:
But when we manage by a just foresight,
Success is prudence, and possession right.
Higgon's Generous Conqueror.
'Tis not in mortals to command success;
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.
It is success that colours all in life:
Success makes fools admir'd, makes villains honest: All the proud virtue of this vaunting world.
Fawns on success, and power, howe'er acquir'd.
Thomson's Agamemnon, a. 5, s. 1.
What tho' I am a villain, who so bold
To tell me so? Let your poor petty traitors
Feel the vindictive lash; and scourge for wrong;
But who shall tax successful villainy,
Or call the rising traitor to account?
Waits on success; the fickle multitude
Like the light straw that floats along the stream,
Glide with the current still, and follow fortune.
Franklin's Earl of Warwick.
That kills himself t' avoid mis'ry, fears it;
And at the best shows a bastard valour.
Massinger's Maid of Honour.
Our time is set and fix'd; our days are told;
And no man knows the limit of his life;
This minute may be mine, the next another's;
But still all mortals ought to wait the summons,
And not usurp on the decrees of fate,
By hastening their own ends.
Smith's Princess of Parma.
He who, superior to the checks of nature,
Dares make his life the victim of his reason,
Does in some sort that reason deify,
And take a flight at heav'n.
Young's Revenge, a. 4, s. 1.
Fear, guilt, despair, and moon-struck frenzy rush
On voluntary death: The wise, the brave,
When the fierce storms of fortune round 'em roar,
Combat the billows with redoubl'd force:
Then, if they perish ere the port is gain'd,
They sink with decent pride; and from the deep
Honour retrieves them bright as rising stars.
Venture not rashly on an unknown being-
Ev'n the most perfect shun the brink of death,
And shudder at the prospect of futurity.
Savage's Sir Thomas Overbury.
Let us seek death, or he not found, supply
With our own hands his office on ourselves:
Why stand we shivering longer under fears,
That shew no end but death, and have the power,
Of many ways to die, the shortest choosing,
Destruction with destruction to destroy.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 10.
If there be an hereafter,
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd
And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man,
Then must it be an awful thing to die;
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.
Our time is fix'd; and all our days are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not: this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission.
Like sentries that must keep their destin'd stand,
And wait th' appointed hour, till they're reliev'd.
Those only are the brave who keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away
Is but a coward's trick: to run away
From this world's ills, that at the very worst
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
By boldly vent' ring on a world unknown,
And plunging headlong in the dark! 'tis mad:
No frenzy half so desperate as this.
Now comes thy glory in the Summer months,
With light and heat refulgent.
'Tis raging noon; and vertical, the sun
Darts on the head direct his forceful rays.
O'er heaven and earth, far as the raging eye
Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all
From pole to pole is undistinguish'd blaze.
Thomson's Seasons.-Summer.
From brightening fields of ether fair disclos'd,
Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt thro' nature's depth :
He comes attended by the sultry hours,
And ever-fanning breezes on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her bashful face; and earth, and skies,
All smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Thomson's Seasons-Summer.
Thou material God!
And representative of the Unknown-
Who chose thee for his shadow!
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for near or far,
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects ;-thou dost rise,
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take
My latest look thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature.
He is gone:
I follow.
Byron's Manfred, a. 3, s. 2.
But yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow,
Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now, apparent all,
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colour'd air,
He looks in boundless majesty abroad;
And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wand'ring streams,
High-gleaming from afar.
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