314 GRIEF-TEARS - WEEPING. Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan BYRON'S Chile Harold So madly shrill, so piercing wild. BYRON'S Parisina. Howe'er our stifled tears we banish, Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, And cherish'd most when least reveal'd. Not one sigh shall tell my story, Not one tear my cheek shall stain; Grief, that stoops not to complain! The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, BYRON'S Parisina. Mrs. ROBINSON. BYRON'S Giaour. Away! we know that tears are vain, Or make one mourner weep the less? Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear, BYRON. BYRON'S Corsar GRIEF-TEARS - WEEPING. There is no darkness like the cloud of mind 515 BYRON'S Corsair, Upon her face there was the tint of grief, BYRON'S Dream. For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile. CAMPBELI. The rose is fairest when 't is budding new, The heavy sigh, The tear in the half-open'd eye, The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd SCOTT'S Rokeby. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, He hung his head-each nobler aim, And hope, and feeling, which had slept Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt may know! BURNS MOORE'S Lalla Rookk. 316 GUILT SIN - VICE. Tears-floods of tears Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills Through valleys where their flow had long been lost. The blight of hope and happiness Is felt when fond ones part, When all that in absence we dread MOORE'S Lalla Rookh FITZ-GREEN HALLECK Is past, and forgotten 's our pain, R. WILLIS GUILT SIN-VICE. Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit MILTON'S Paradise Lost. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; It is great sin to swear unto a sin, But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. SHAKSPEARE. SHAKSPEARE. Guiltiness would speak, tho' tongues were out of use. Serpents, though they feed SHAKSPEARE. On sweetest flowers, yet do poisons breed. SHAKSPEARE GUILT SIN - VICE. Our sins, like to our shadows, When our day's in its glory, scarce appear; 817 SUCKLING. How guilt, once harbour'd in the conscious breast, Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, DR. JOHNSON. POPE'S Essay on Man. Where, where, for shelter shall the guilty fly, YOUNG'S Night Thoughts. Ah me! from real happiness we stray, THOMSON'S Agamemnon. Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, BYRON'S Childe Harola. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! 'The fascination of thy magic gaze? A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear, delusive shape! BYRON'S Childe Harold. To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads! BYRON'S Sardanapalus. 'Thou need'st not answer; thy confession speaks, Already redd'ning in thy guilty cheeks. BYRON'S Corsair. The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, Pours forth, at last, the heart's blood turn'd to tears. To me she gave her heart-that all Which tyranny cannot enthral. BYRON'S Don Juan. BYRON'S Giaour BYRON'S Corsunr. Worm-like 't was trampled, adder-like aveng'd. His heart was all on honour bent, He could not stoop to love; No lady in the land had power |