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Macbeth, Acti. Sc. 7.

SHAKESPEARE.

So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,

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Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, And these be happy called, unhappy those; But Heaven's just balance equal will appear, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. Not present good or ill the joy or curse, When those are placed in hope, and these in fear.

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.

DESPAIR.

Talk not of comfort; 't is for lighter ills:
I will indulge my sorrows, and give way
To all the pangs and fury of despair.

Calo.

BYRON.

J. ADDISON.

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Of my reception into grace; what worse,
For where no hope is left, is left no fear.

Paradise Regained.

MILTON.

But future views of better or of worse.

Essay on Man, Epistle III.

Often do the spirits

Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.

The Death of Wallenstein.

HOPE.

POPE.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

Hope of all ills that men endure,
The only cheap and universal cure!

.

Hope thou first-fruits of happiness!
Thou gentle dawning of a bright success!

Brother of Faith! 'twixt whom and thee
The joys of Heaven and Earth divided be!
For Hope.

Hope! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy, Hope! thou nurse of young desire.

Whom now despairing agonies destroy,
Speak, for he can, and none so well as he,
What treasures centre, what delights, in thee.

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Far off the massive portals of the wood,
Buttressed with shadow, misty-blue, serene,
Waited my coming. Speedily I stood

Where the dun wall rose roofed in plumy green. Dare one go in ?-Glance backward! Dusk as night Each column, fringed with sprays of amber light.

No stir nor call the sacred hush profanes;
Save when from some bare tree-top, far on high,
Fierce disputations of the clamorous cranes

Fall muffled, as from out the upper sky.

So still, one dreads to wake the dreaming air,
Breaks a twig softly, moves the foot with care.

The hollow dome is green with empty shade,
Struck through with slanted shafts of afternoon;
Aloft, a little rift of blue is made,

Where slips a ghost that last night was the moon. Beside its pearl a sea-cloud stays its wing,

Beneath, a tilted hawk is balancing.

AMONG THe redwoods.

Continued.

The heart feels not in every time and mood
What is around it. Dull as any stone
I lay; then, like a darkening dream, the wood
Grew Karnac's temple, where I breathed alone
In the awed air strange incense, and uprose
Dim, monstrous columns in their dread repose.

The mind not always sees; but if there shine
A bit of fern-lace bending over moss,

A silky glint that rides a spider-line,

On a trefoil two shadow spears that cross, Three grasses that toss up their nodding heads, With spring and curve like clustered fountain-threads,

Suddenly, through side windows of the eye,
Deep solitudes, where never souls have met;
Vast spaces, forest corridors that lie

In a mysterious world, unpeopled yet.
Because the outward eye was elsewhere caught,
The awfulness and wonder come unsought.

If death be but resolving back again.

Into the world's deep soul, this is a kind
Of quiet, happy death, untouched by pain
Or sharp reluctance. For I feel my mind
Is interfused with all I hear and see;
As much a part of All as cloud or tree.

Listen! A deep and solemn wind on high;

The shafts of shining dust shift to and fro;

The columned trees sway imperceptibly,

And creak as mighty masts when trade-winds blow. The cloudy sails are set; the earth ship swings

Along the sea of space to grander things.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

Besides what hope the never-ending flight

Of future days may bring.

Paradise Lost, Book ii.

MILTON.

And, when the stream

Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left, Deposited upon the silent shore

Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions Of memory, images and precious thoughts

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That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

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Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear.) Epistle to Robert, Earl of Oxford, and Earl of Mortimer. PCPE

For it so falls out, That what we have we prize not to the worth, Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value; then we find The virtue, that possession would not show s Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Clau lio: When he shall hear she died upon his words Th' idea of her life shall sweetly creep Into his study of imagination,

And every lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparelled in more precious habit,
More moving-delicate, and full of life,

Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

Than when she lived indeed.

Much Ado about Nothing, Activ. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE

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POVERTY.

Take physic, pomp;

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel.

King Lear, Act iii. Se 4.

SHAKESPEARE.

Through tattered clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all.

King Lear, Act iv. Sc. 6.

SHAKESPEARE.

Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye
Th' unfeeling proud one looks, and passes by,
Condemned on penury's barren path to roam,
Scorned by the world, and left without a home.
Pleasures of Hope.

T. CAMPBELL.

Rest here, distrest by poverty no more. Epitaph on C. Philips.

RICHES.

DR. S. JOHNSON.

Gold gold gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered and rolled;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled :

Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold:
Gold gold gold! gold!
Good or bad a thousand-fold!

How widely its agencies vary,

To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,
As even its minted coins express,

Now stamped with the image of good Queen Bess
And now of a Bloody Mary.

Miss Kilmansegg.

T. HOOD

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