« PreviousContinue »
A Spanish poet, in describing his paramour, tells us, that in thinking of his mistress, he fell into a river, where the heat of his passion had such an effect upon the water, that it bubbled up and boiled the fish, insomuch that those who came to take him out, were diverted from their object by the delicacy of the fish, which were swimming about ready cooked!
The Doctor learned, as learned can be,
Cured me, when like to smother;
Burke's Irritability-On one occasion Mr. Burke's quick sense of indignity discovered itself by flight. He had just risen in the House of Commons, with some papers in his hand, on the subject of which he intended to make a motion, when a rough-hewn member, who had no ear for the charms of eloquence, rudely started up, and said,—Mr. Speaker, I hope the Honourable Gentleman does not mean to read that large bundle of papers, and to bore us with a long speech to the bargain.Mr. Burke was so swoln, or rather so nearly suffocated with rage, as to be in the instant incapable of utterance, and absolutely ran out of the House. On this occasion, George Selwyn remarked, that it was the only time he ever saw the fable realized, A Lion put to flight by the braying of an Ass.
Maxims. Envious people are very miserable, because the happiness of others torment them as much as their own misery. Envy corrodes its possessors, as rust does iron. Envy is the saw of the soul. The beauty of fame is blasted by envy as by sickness. To desire little, levels poverty with riches. It is a noble satisfaction to be ill spoken of when we are conscious of doing what is right. Envy and Idleness married together, and begot Curiosity. Envy and Covetousness are never satisfied. Envy is ashamed and afraid to be seen. Envy is so shameful and cowardly a passion, that nobody ever had the confidence to own it. Envy never yet enriched any man. Envy shooteth at others, and woundeth herself.
To the Ruins of an Old Highland Castle.
TO THE RUINS OF AN OLD HIGHLAND CASTLE.
When the white locks of age crown the heads of our sires,
Mark the struggling of many a wild wasting blast,
Some sweet haven of rest, free from the rude wind and wave, We brighten the night of their days with our love,
And we lead their frail steps down in peace to the grave.
But for you ye grey relics of times that are gone,
Or frowned in contempt on the fierce battle fray--
Long, long years, have fled since the battle strife rag'd
Round your bulwarks unshaken, when chieftains of might,
And long years have fled since thy halls all resounded,
Or the glad hymn of victory flowed from the throng.
Thy children have long sought the dust of their fathers,
And waste are thy turrets and waste are thy chambers,
But no arm of aid has renewed thy strength failing,
A stranger thou sinkest in thine own native clime.
Would to heaven the cold hearted race that surround thee,
And not ev'n a stone tell thy site on the shore:
And the bard that laments thee, he too shall depart,
the place that now knows thee shall know thee no more." Dunarbach, Nov., 1818.
C. M. T. M.
By Irvine's stream sat weeping Mary,
Virtue fled, and pleasure died.
Sat, and eyed the rolling tide.
Settled sorrow on her waited,
The deceitful heart of man.
O'er her head destraction gather'd,
In her breast the wild flowers wither'd,
Down her cheeks in torrents ran.
"Heaven" she cried, "O hear my wailing
Darts of madd'ning grief assailing,
Bitter are the draughts of woe.
O one look of comfort give me,
Lay me then with those who resting,
See a ruin'd maid before thee,
Dost thou hear her deep implore thee?
Let this be the closing sigh.
Man betray'd me, joy forsook me,
White the foam rose on the billow,
Labour paus'd and look'd aghast..
For the tempest gathered fast.
Thick the rattling rain descended,
To escape her spirit tried then,
Burst its bands and flew away,
Kilmarnock, 10th Nov., 1818.
How sacred the hour when in beauty reclines
How dear are the moments when evening reclines,.
The visage of nature can lend
Soft peace to the mind, and sweetly reveal
And then, while, as dim shades of glory that roll
The visions of young days revisit my soul,
And dream that the smiles on her lover beneath
Though shining with angels above.
Glasgow, Nov., 1818.