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TABLE OF CONTENTS.
48 Country Life
54 Critics and Criticism . . 106
Scold ................ 466 Victory
I do not doubt his love, but I could wish
His Like as the culver on the bared bough,
presence might confirm it: when I sco
A fire well fed, shoot up its wanton flame, Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And dart itself into the face of heaven; And in her songs sends many a wishful vow
I grant that fire, without a fresh supply, For his return that seems to linger late ;
May for a while be still a fire; but yet So I, alone now left, disconsolate,
How doth its lustre languish, and itself Mourn to myself the absence of my love;
Grow dark, if it too long want the embrace And wandering here and there all desolate,
Of its loved pylo! how straight it buried lies Seek, with my plaints, to match that mournful dove.
In its own ruins !
Robert Mead's Comfort of Love and Friendship Though absent, present in desires they be ;
If she be gone, the world, in my esteem, Our souls much further than our eyes can see.
Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it
But dust and feathers. Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
John Crown's Ambitious Statesman. Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion ;
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Like gold to airy thinness beat.
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless ; If they be two, they are two so
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall, As stiff twin compasses are two;
And leave no memory of what it was! The soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
Repair me with thy presence, Sylvia ; To move, but doth, if th' other do.
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain. And though it in the centre sit,
Shakspeare's Two Gent. of Verona Yet when the other far doth roam,
What! keep a week away? Seven days and It leans and hearkens after it,
nights ? And grows erect, as that comes home.
Eight score eight hours ? and lovers’ absent hours, Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
More tedious than the dial eight score times ? Like th' other foot, obliquely run:
O weary reckoning!
Shaks. Othella Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.
Without your sight my life is less secure;
Dr. John Donne. Those wounds you gave, your eyes can only cure, It is as if a night should shade noon-day,
No balm in absence will effectual prove, Or that the sun was here, but forced away;
Nature provides no weapon salve for love. And we were left, under that hemisphere,
Sir Robert Howard's Vestal Virgin Where we must feel it dark for half a year. Thus absence dies, and dying proves
Ben Jonson. No absence can subsist with loves
That do partake of fair perfection ;
To see each other in reflection.
O tell him I have sat these three long hours, I'm from thy sight, the heart within my bosom Counting the weary beatings of the clock, Moans like a tender infant in its cradle,
Which slowly portion'd out the promis'd time Whose nurse had left it.
That brought him not to bless me with his sight Otway's Venice Preserved.
Joanna Baillie's Rayner Love reckons hours for months, and days for years;
Yes, And every little absence is an age.
The limner's art may trace the absent feature,
Dryden's Amphictrion. And give the eye of distant weeping faith
But oh! the scenes 'mid which they met and
parted, Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
The thoughts—the recollections sweet and bitter, And image charms he must behold no more.
Th’ Elysian dreams of lovers, when they loved,
Who shall restore them?
Maturin's Bertram. Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
Bertram, Bertram ! 'T is sure the hardest science to forget!
How sweet it is to tell the list'ning night
Pope's Eloisa. The name beloved. It is a spell of power Unequal task! a passion to resign,
To wake the buried slumberers of the heart, For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine! Where memory lingers o'er the grave of passion Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, Watching its tranced sleep. How often must it love, how often hate,
The thoughts of other days are rushing on me, How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
The loved the lost,--the distant, and the dead, Conceal, disdain-do all things but forget! Are with me now, and I will mingle with them
Pope's Eloisa. Till my sense fails, and my raised heart is wrapt
There's not an hour In secret suspension of mortality. of day or dreaming night but I am with thee :
Maturin's Bertram. There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
Long did his wife, And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
The way he went at parting,—but he came not! Of thee.
Rogers's Italy. Proctor's Mirandola. Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,
There as she sought repose, her sorrowing heart And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot
Recall'd her absent love with bitter sighs;
Regret had deeply fix'd the poison’d dart,
In vain she sceks to close her weary eyes,
Those eyes still swim incessantly in tears, ls cause of half the poverty we feel,
Hope in her cheerless bosom fading dies, And makes the world the wilderness it is.
Distracted by a thousand cruel fears,
While banish'd from his love for ever she appears. Cowper's Task.
Mrs. Tighe's Psyche. Iler fancy follow'd him through foaming waves To distant shores, and she would sit and weep As slow our ship her foamy track At what a sailor suffers. Fancy, too,
Against the wind was cleaving, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Her trembling pennant still look'd back Would oft anticipate his glad return,
To that dear isle 't was leaving. And dream of transports she was not to know. So loath we part from all we love,
Cowper's Task. From all the links that bind us ; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, My heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee :
To those we've left behind us.
T. Moore Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Oh! couldst thou but know Goldsmith's Traveller. With what a deep devotedness of woe
ABSENTEES-ABSTINENCE - ACCIDENT-ACCLAMATIONS.
I wept thy absence, o'er and o'er again
The honours of the turf as all our own. Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, And memory, like a drop that night and day And show the shame ye might conceal at home, Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away! In foreign eyes !—be grooms and win the plate,
Moore's Lalla Rookh. Where once your nobler fathers won a crown. A boat at midnight sent alone
Cowper's Task To drift upon the moonless sea, & lute, whose leading chord is gone, A wounded bird, that hath but one Imperfect wing to soar upon,
Moore's Loves of the Angels. Against diseases here the strongest fence
His life is paralleld Byron's Cein. Ev'n with the stroke and line of his great justice; Wires, in their husbands' absence, grow subtler,
He doth with holy abstinence subdue And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. That in himself, which he spurs on his pow'r Byron's Don Juan. To qualify in others.
Shaks. Meas. for Meas. Absent many a year Far o'er the sea, his sweetest dreams were still
Yet in abstinence in things we must profess Of that cear voice that soothed his infancy.
Which nature fram'd for need, not for excess. Robert Southey.
Brown's Pastorals. We must part awhile : A few sho:t mont's—though short, they must be
long Without thy dear society; but yet
If we consider accident,
And how repugnant unto sense
It pays desert with bad event, Burn with a tender glow when I return.
We shall disparage providence.
Sir William Davenant's Cruel Brother. When from land and home receding, And from hearts that ache to bleeding,
As the unthought-on accident is guilty Think of those behind, who love thee,
Of what we wildly do, so we profess While the sun is bright above thee!
Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Then, as down the ocean glancing,
Of every wind that blows.
Shaks. Winter Tale With the waves his rays are dancing, Think how long the night will be To the eyes that weep for thee.
Miss Gould's Poems. Call thou me home! from thee apart
ACCLAMATIONS. Faintly and low my pulses beat,
It is a note As if the life-blood of my heart
Of upstart greatness to observe and watch Within thine own heart holds its seat,
For those poor trifles, which the noble mind And floweth only where thou art:
Neglects and scorns.
Of acclamation, doubtless signs of joys
The sure forerunner of a fair event.
Sir John Beaumont
When all thy mountains clap their hands in joy, Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast And all thy cataracts thunder--- That's the boy!" At least superior jockeyship, and claim
0. W. Holmes