How sad and dismal sound the farewells which Poor lovers take, whom destiny disjoins, Although they know their absence will be short: And when they meet again, how musical And sweet are all the mutual joys they breathe! Like birds, who when they see the weary sun Forsake the world, they lay their little heads Beneath their wings, to ease that weight which his Departure adds unto their grief.
"T is true, my love: But when they see that bright Perpetual traveller return, they warm And air their feathers at his beams, and sing Until their gratitude hath made them hoarse.
Sir W. Davenant's Platonic Lovers.
My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Otway's Venice Preserved. In taking leave,
Thro' the dark lashes of her darting eyes, Methought she shot her soul at ev'ry glance, Still looking back, as if she had a mind That you should know she left her soul behind her. Lee's Theodosius.
Why dost thou wind thyself about my heart, And make this separation painful to us?
Rowe's Lady Jane Grey.
Oh! had he ever lov'd, he would have thought The worst of tortures bliss, to silent parting.
Cibber's Cæsar in Egypt. Farewell, my home, my home no longer now, Witness of many a calm and happy day; And thou, fair eminence, upon whose brow Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray. Farewell! Mine eyes no longer shall pursue The westering sun beyond the utmost height, When slowly he forsakes the fields of light. No more the freshness of the falling dew, Cool and delightful here shall bathe my head, As from this western window dear, I lean, Listening the while I watch the placid scene,- The martins twittering underneath the shed. Farewell my home, where many a day has past, In joys whose lov'd remembrance long shall last. Southey. Well-peace to thy heart, though another's it be, And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for Moore.
Then came the parting hour, and what arise When lovers part! expressive looks, and eyes Tender and tearful,- many a fond adieu, And many a call the sorrow to renew; Sighs such as lovers only can explain, And words that they might undertake in vain. Crabbe's Hall.
Bear witness earth and heaven,
That ne'er was hope to mortal given, So twisted with the strings of life, As this-to call Matilda wife; I bid it now for ever part, And with the effort bursts my heart.
She rose-she sprung-she clung to his embrace, Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. He dared not raise to his that deep blue eye, That downcast droop'd in tearless agony. Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms; Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt So full that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! Hark! peals the thunder of the signal gun! It told 't was sunset, and he cursed that sun. Again-again that form he madly press'd, Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd; And tottering to the couch, his bride he bore- One moment gazed as if to gaze no more; Felt that for him earth held but her alone, Kiss'd her cold forehead-turn'd-is Conrad gone? Byron's Corsair.
Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.
Why do I weep? to leave the vine Whose clusters o'er me bend The myrtle-yet oh! call it mine!— The flowers I lov'd to tend. A thousand thoughts of all things dear, Like shadows o'er me sleep,
I leave my sunny childhood here — Oh, therefore let me weep!
I have no parting sigh to give, So take my parting smile.
Lightly won, and lightly lost, love I shed no tears for thee;
There was little to remember, and nothing to regret. Miss Landon When thou art gone there creeps into my heart A cold and bitter consciousness of pain; The light, the warmth of life with thee depart, And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look and tone; And suddenly I wake—and am alone!
Frances Kemble Butler. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet! That pulse to pulse responsive still,
They both must heave-or cease to beat. Bernard Barten
There are two souls whose equal flow In gentle streams so calmly run, That when they part-they part!—ah, no! They cannot part-those souls are one. Bernard Barten
We part- no matter how we part, There are some thoughts we utter not, Deep treasur'd in our inmost heart,
Never reveal'd, and ne'er forgot! Why murmur at the common lot?
We part I speak not of the pain,— But when shall I each lovely spot, And each lov'd face behold again. Richard Henry Wilde.
We parted in sadness, but spoke not of parting; We talk'd not of hopes that we both must resign; I saw not her eyes, and but one teardrop starting Fell down on her hand as it trembled in mine: Each felt that the past we could never recover, Each felt that the future no hope could restore, She shudder'd at wringing the heart of her lover, I dared not to say I must meet her no more. Long years have gone by, and the spring-time smiles ever
As o'er our young loves it first smiled in their birth;
Behold the image of mortality, And feeble nature cloth'd with fleshly tire; When raging passion with fierce tyranny, Robs reason of her true regality, And makes it servant to her basest part! The strong it weakens with infirmity, And with bold fury arms the weakest heart, The strong, through pleasure, soonest falls, the weak thro' smart.
Long years have gone by, yet that parting, oh! Who would the title of true worth were his,
Can it be forgotten by either on earth.
The note of each wild bird that carols toward heaven
Must tell her of swift-wing'd hopes that were mine,
Must vanquish vice, and no base thoughts con
The bravest trophy ever man obtain'd,
Is that, which, o'er himself, himself hath gain'd. Earl of Sterline's Darius.
Passions are likened best to floods and streams;
While the dew that steals over each blossom at The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb:
Tells me of the teardrop that wept their decline. Hoffman's Poems.
I must leave thee, lady sweet! Months shall waste before we meet, Winds are fair, and sails are spread, Anchors leave their ocean bed; Ere this shining day grow dark, Skies shall gird my shoreless bark; Through thy tears, O lady mine, Read thy lover's parting line.
So when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover. Sir W. Raleigh.
When headstrong passion gets the reins of reason, The force of nature, like too strong a gale, For want of ballast, oversets the vessel.
Higgons's Generous Conqueror. Exalted souls
Have passions in proportion violent,
O. W. Holmes. Resistless, and tormenting: they're a tax Impos'd by nature on pre-eminence;
And fortitude, and wisdom must support them. Lillo's Elmerick. While passions glow, the heart, like heated steel, Takes each impression, and is worked at pleasure. Young's Busiris. When reason, like the skilful charioteer, Can break the fiery passions to the bit, And, spite of their licentious sallies, keep The radiant tract of glory; passions, then, Are aids and ornaments. Triumphant reason, Firm in her seat, and swift in her career, Enjoys their violence, and, smiling, thanks Their formidable flame, for bright renown.
The ruling passion, be it what it will, The ruling passion conquers reason still.
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules, Uncheck'd by reason, and the pow'rful voice Of friendship.
Brooke's Earl of Warwick
Moore's Loves of the Angels Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core though tempting to the eyes, Flowers, whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees, whose gums are poison; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit, forbidden to our wants. Byron's Childe Harold. An empire thou could'st crush, command, rebuild, But govern not thy pettiest passion.
Byron's Childe Harold. My passions were all living serpents, and Twin'd, like the gorgons, round me.
Passion, when deep, is still: the glaring eye That reads its enemy with glance of fire, The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness, The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide The keen, fix'd orbs, that burn and flash below, The hand firm clench'd and quivering, and the foot Planted in attitude to spring, and dart Its vengeance, are the language it employs.
One passion prominent appears, the lust of liberty, and hung the popular flag Of power, which ofttimes took the fairer name
Pollock's Course of Time. When thou art with me every sense is dull, And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee; My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame, And my bewilder'd spirit seems to swim In eddying whirls of passion dizzily. Frances Kemble Butler. Oh! precious is the flower that passion brings To his first shrine of beauty, when the heart Runs over in devotion, and no art Checks the free gush of the wild lay he sings; But the rapt eye and the impetuous thought Declare the pure affection.
Simms's Grouped Thoughts.
The wildest ills that darken life Are rapture to the bosom's strife; The tempest, in its blackest form, Is beauty to the bosom's storm.
J. W. Eastburn. And underneath that face, like summer's ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all save fear. Halleck's Poems.
In thy breast there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that where breathes the Upas tree. Halleck's Poems.
To thought's tumultuous flow
I strive to give the strength of glowing words; The waves of feeling, tossing to and fro,
In broken music o'er my heart's loose chords, Give but their fainting echoes from my soul, As through its silent depths their wild, swift cur. rents roll. Mrs. Welby's Poems. Oh! Passion's words are faithless things, And Love disowns them ere they fall; It is the reckless tongue that stings, The tongue that knows not Reason's thrall.
Patience, unmov'd, no marvel tho' she pause; (They can be meck, that have no other cause ;) A wretched soul, bruis'd with adversity, We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry;
But were we burden'd with like weight of pain, As much, or more, we should ourselves complain. Shaks. Comedy of Errors.
How poor are they, that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Shaks. Othello. Patience, my lord! why 't is the soul of peace: Of all the virtues 't is the nearest kin to heaven; It makes men look like gods: the best of men That e'er wore earth about him, was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breath'd.
Patience in cowards is tame hopeless fear; But in brave minds, a scorn of what they bear. Sir R. Howard's Indian Queen. Many are the sayings of the wise, In ancient and in modern books enroll'd, Extolling patience as the truest fortitude; And to the bearing well of all calamities, All chances incident to man's frail life, Consolitaries writ,
With studied argument, and much persuasion sought,
Lenient of grief and anxious thought:
But with th' afflicted in his pangs their sound Little prevails, or rather seems a tune
Harsh, and of dissonant mood from his complaint;
Thy injuries would teach patience to blaspheme, Yet still thou art a dove.
Beaumont's Double Marriage.
Patience preach it to the winds, To roaring seas, or raging fires! the knaves That teach it, laugh at you when you believe 'em. Otway's Orphan.
O ye cold-hearted, frozen formalists! On such a theme, 't is impious to be calm; Passion is reason, transport temper, here.
Young's Night Thoughts.
E'en the best must own, Patience and resignation are the pillars Of human peace on earth.
Young's Night Thoughts.
But patience is the virtue of an ass, That trots beneath his burden, and is quiet. Lansdowne's Heroic Love.
Preach patience to the sea, when jarring winds Throw up her swelling billows to the sky! And if your reasons mitigate her fury, My soul will be as calm.
Smith's Princess of Parma
As the pent water of a mill-dam lies Motionless, yielding, noiseless, and serene, Patience waits meekly with compassion'd eyes; Or, like the speck-cloud, which alone is scen Silver'd within blue space, ling'ring for air On which to sail prophetic voyages; Or as the fountain stone that doth not wear, But suits itself to pressure, and with ease Diverts the dropping crystal; or the wife That sits beside her husband, and her love Subliming to another state and life, Off'ring him consolation as a dove — Her sighs and tears, her heartache, and her mind Devout, untir'd, calm, precious, and resign'd.
In your patience ye are strong.
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