The man who consecrates his hours
By vig'rous effort, and an honest aim,
At once he draws the sting of life and death;
He walks with nature; and her paths are peace.
Young's Night Thoughts, n. 2.
Who does the best his circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
His hand the good man fastens on the skies,
And bids earth roll, nor feels her idle whirl.
A good man, and an angel! these between
How thin the barrier ?
What divides their fate?
Perhaps a moment, or perhaps a year;
Or, if an age, it is a moment still;
A moment, or eternity's forgot.
Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures.
That life is long, which answers life's great end:
The time that bears no fruit, deserves no name;
The man of wisdom is the man of years. Ibid. n. 5.
Virtue, our present peace, our future prize.
Man's unprecarious, natural estate,
Improveable at will, in virtue lies;
Its tenure sure; its income is divine.
High worth is elevated place: 'tis more;
It makes the post stand candidate for thee;
Makes more than monarchs, makes an honest man ;
Tho' no exchequer it commands, 'tis wealth;
And tho' it wears no ribband, 'tis renown;
Renown that would not quit thee, tho' disgrac'd,
Nor leave thee pendant on a master's smile.
Believe the muse, the wintry blast of death
Kills not the buds of virtue; no, they spread,
Beneath the heavenly beams of brighter suns,
Thro' endless ages, into higher powers.
Thomson's Seasons-Summer.
Unblest by virtue, government a league
Becomes, a circling junto of the great,
To rob by law; religion mild a yoke
To tame the stooping soul, a trick of state
To mask their rapine, and to share the prey.
What are without it senates, save a face
Of consultation deep and reason free,
While the determin'd voice and heart are sold?
What boasted freedom, save a sounding name?
And what election, but a market vile
Of slaves self-barter'd?
Thomson's Liberty.
Is aught so fair
In all the dewy landscapes of the spring,
In the bright eye of Hesper or the morn,
In nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair
As virtuous friendship? as the candid blush
Of him who strives with fortune to be just?
The graceful tear that streams for others' woes?
Or the mild majesty of private life,
Where peace with ever-blooming olive crowns
The gate; where honour's liberal hands effuse
Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings
Of innocence and love protect the scene?
Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination, b. 1.
Virtue, (for mere good-nature is a fool,)
Is sense and spirit with humanity :
'Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds;
'Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance just.
Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare;
But at his heart the most undaunted son
Of fortune dreads its name and awful charms.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. 4.
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul,
Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness
That even above the smiles and frowns of fate
Exalts great nature's favourites; a wealth
That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. 4.
'Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
But him the least the dull or painful hours
Of life oppress, whom sober sense conducts,
And virtue, through this labyrinth we tread.
Virtue and sense I mean not to disjoin;
Virtue and sense are one; and, trust me, still
A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
The only amaranthine flow'r on earth
Is virtue, th' only lasting treasure, truth.
The dread volcano ministers to good:
Its smother'd flames might undermine the world:
Loud Ætnas fulminate in love to man.
Is death more cruel from a private dagger
Than in the field, from murdering swords of thou
Or does the number slain make slaughter glorious?
Is of eternal use to human kind;
For ever and anon when you have pass'd
A few dull years in peace and propagation,
The world is overstock'd with fools, and wants
A pestilence at least, if not a hero. Jeffery's Edwin.
Rash, fruitless war, from wanton glory wag'd,
Is only splendid murder.
Thomson's Edward and Eleonora, a. l. s. 1.
I ne'er approved this rash, romantic war,
Begot by hot-brain'd bigots, and fomented
By the intrigues of proud designing priests.
All ages have their madness, this is ours.
Extended empire, like expanded gold,
Exchanges solid strength for feeble splendour.
Ah Mercia, Mercia! on the fields of war
Bleed thy remaining sons, and carrion birds
Tear the cold limbs that should have turn'd thy soil.
Joanna Baillie's Ethwald, pt. 2, a. 1, s. 3.
In those who do their native rights maintain;
In those whose swords an iron barrier are
Between the lawless spoiler and the weak;
But is in those who draw th' offensive blade
For added power or gain, sordid and despicable
As meanest office of the worldly churl.
At once the proof and scourge of man's fall'n state!
After the brightest conquest, what appears
Of all thy glories? for the vanquish'd chains!
For the proud victors, what? Alas! to reign
O'er desolated nations!
Hannah More's David and Goliah, pt. 1.
While Desolation, snatching from the hand
Of Time the scythe of ruin, sits aloft,
Or stalks in dreadful majesty abroad.
Hannah More's Belshazzar, pt. 1.
I own my natural weakness; I have not
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder
Without some sense of shuddering; and the sight
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death
Of men surprised, a glory.
Byron's Doge of Venice, a. 3, s. 2.
For who can think submission!
Open or understood must be resolv'd.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.
My sentence is for open war: of wiles,
More unexpert, I boast not: then let those
Contrive who need, or when they need, not now.
Where cattle pastur'd late, now scatter'd lies
With carcases and arms th' ensanguin'd field
Deserted.
Onward they march embattled, to the sound
Of martial harmony; fifes, cornets, drums,
That rouse the sleepy soul to arms, and bold
Heroic deeds.
Somervile's Chase, b. 2.
Let such as deem it glory to destroy,
Rush into blood, the sack of cities seek;
Unpierc'd, exulting in the widow's wail,
The virgin's shriek, and infant's trembling cry.
Thomson's Seasons—Autumn.
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