404

MIND - REASON-THOUGHT.

The joys of sense to mental joys are mean;
Sense on the present only feeds; the soul
On past and future forages for joy;
'Tis hers, by retrospect, through time to range,
And forward, time's great sequel to survey.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

For just experience tells, in every soil,

That those who think must govern those who toil;
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.

GOLDSMITH'S Traveller.

When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah,whither strays the immortal mind?

It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darken'd dust behind.

His thoughts

Were combinations of disjointed things,
And forms, impalpable and unperceiv'd
By others' sight, familiar were to his.

BYRON.

The tree hath lost its blossom, and the rind,

Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth;

BYRON.

But the sap lasts.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

"T is a base

Abandonment of reason to resign

Our light of thought.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain

We would against them make the flesh obey

The spirit in the end will have its way.

BYRON'S Don Juan

405

IRTH-MISANTHROPY.

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne,
And hands obey - our hearts are still our own.

A moment o'er his face

A tablet of unutterable thoughts

BYRON'S Don Juan

Was trac'd-and then it faded as it came.

BYRON'S Dream.

The insate mind, but from without supplied,
Languishes on a weak imperfect food;

If sustenance more spiritual be denied,

With flame consuming on itself 't will brood.

The mind of man is ne'er at rest,

Whether the body sleeps or wakes,

SIR E. BRYDGES.

To heaven, earth, hell - North, South, East, West-
The mind its ceaseless wanderings takes.

J. T. WATSON.

MIRTH. (See CHEERFULNESS.)

MISANTHROPY.

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind!

There's not a day but, to the man of thought,
Betrays some secret that throws new reproach
On life, and makes him sick of seeing more.

SHAKSPEARE.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts. Fear'd, shunn'd, belied, ere youth had lost her force, He hated men too much to feel remorse,

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred calf,

To

pay the injuries of come on all.

BYRON'S Corsair.

406

MISER-MISERY-SORROW.

I have not lov'd the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,—

Nor coin'd my cheeks to smiles -
In worship of an echo.

nor cried aloud

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven?

Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven,
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away?
And only not to desperation driven,

Because not altogether of such clay

As rots into the souls of those whom I survey!

BYRON'S Childe Harold

We talk of love and pleasure-but 't is all

A tale of falsehood. Life's made up of gloom;
The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall,

The loveliest pathway leads but to the tomb.

Only this is sure:

J. G. PERCIVAL,

In this world nought, save misery, can endure.

MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY

MISER. (See AVARICE.)

-

MISERY - SORROW.

And then will canker sorrow eat her bud,
And chase the native beauty from her cheek.

SHAKSPEARE.

For where the greater malady is fix'd,
The lesser is scarce felt.

SHAKSPEARE.

MISERY - SORROW.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.

It easeth some, tho' none it ever cur'd,
To think their sorrows others have endur'd.

Some secret venom preys upon his heart;

407

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEAFE

A stubborn and unconquerable flame
Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life.

Alas! I have no words to tell my grief;
To vent my sorrow would be some relief;
Light sufferings give us leisure to complain;
We groan, but cannot speak, in greater pain.

Man is a child of sorrow, and this world

ROWE

DRYDEN

In which we breathe, hath cares enough to plague us;
But it hath means withal to soothe those cares;

And he, who meditates on others' woes,

Shall in that meditation lose his own.

CUMBERLAND's Timocles

Heaven oft in mercy smites, even when the blow
Severest is.

Though gay companions o'er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill,

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Though pleasure stir the madd'ning soul-
The heart, the heart, is lonely still.

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought
The intersected lines of thought;

Those furrows, which the burning share

Of sorrow ploughs untimely there:

Scars of the lacerated mind,

Which the soul's war doth leave behind.

BYRON.

BYRON'S Parisina.

406

MISERY - SORROW.

Joy's recollection is no longer joy,

But sorrow's memory is sorrow still!

BYRON'S Marino Faliero

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Wrung with the wounds that kill not, but ne'er heal.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we may bless.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

His life was one long war with self-sought foes,

Or friends by him self-banish'd.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

Bow'd and bent,

Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

What deep wound ever heal'd without a scar?

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

The furrows of long thought and dried-up tears.

The loss of love, the treachery of friends,
Or death of those we doat on, when a part
of us dies with them, and each fond hope ends.

BYRON'S Don Juan.

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command.

BYRON'S Don Juan.

Wait, till like me, your hopes are blighted — till
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ;
Famine and poverty your guests at table;

Despair your bedfellow — then rise, but no!
From sleep, and judge.

BYRON.