At princes let but satire lift his gun,
The more their feathers fly, the more the fun.
E'en the whole world, blockheads and men of
letters,

Enjoy a cannonade upon their betters.

Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar. Home hath he none who once becomes a king! Behind the pillar'd masses of his halls The dagger'd traitor lurks; his vaulted roofs Do nightly echo to the whisper'd vows Of those who curse him.

Joanna Baillie's Ethwald.

A crown! what is it?

Is it to bear the miseries of a people!
To hear their murmurs, feel their discontents,
And sink beneath a load of splendid care!
To have your best success ascribed to fortune,
And fortune's failures all ascribed to you!
It is to sit upon a joyless height,

To ev'ry blast of changing fate expos'd!
Too high for hope! too great for happiness!
Hannah More's Daniel,

It being now settled that emp'rors and kings,
Like kites made of foolscap are high flying things,
To whose tails a few millions of subjects, or so,
Have been tied in a string to be whisk'd to and fro,
Just wherever it suits the said foolscap to go.

Moore's Crib's Memorial to Congress.

This was a truth to us extremely trite,
Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things;
She deem'd her least command must yield delight,
Earth being only made for queens and kings.

Ill do you know the spectral forms that wait
Upon a king; care with his furrow'd brow,
Unsleeping watchfulness, lone secresy,
Attend his throne by day, his couch by night.
Lord John Russell's Don Carlos.
The people cry, "there is the prince shall reign
When Philip is no more:" old nurses bless
His beardless face, and silly children toss
Their tiny caps into the air; while I
Am met by frigid reverence, passive awe,
That fears, yet dares not own itself for fear;
As though the public hangman stalk'd behind me:
And thus it is to reign-to gain men's hate.
Thus for the future monarch, fancy weaves
A spotless robe, entwines his sceptre round
With flowery garlands, places on his head
A crown of laurels, while the weary present,
Like a stale riddle, or a last year's fashion,
Carries no grace with it. Base vulgar world!
'Tis thus that men for ever live in hope,
And he that has done nothing is held forth
As capable of all things.

Lord John Russell's Don Carlos.

Kiss you at first, my lord! 't is no fair fashion; Our lips are like rose-buds, blown with men's breaths,

They lose both sap and savour.

Beaumont and Fletcher's Mad Lover.
May I taste

The nectar of her lip? I do not give it
The praise it merits: Antiquity is too poor
To help me with a simile t' express her:
Let me drink often from this living spring,
To nourish new invention.

He scarce afforded one kind parting word,
But went away so cold, the kiss he gave me
Seem'd the forc'd compliment of sated love.
Otway's Orphan.

Oh! Isidora, where

Where are you loitering now when Guido's here?
By the bright God of love, I'll punish you,
Idler, and press your rich red lips until
The colour flies.

Proctor's Mirandola.

Oh! could I give the world;
One kiss of thine, but thus to touch thy lips,
I were a gainer by the vast exchange.
The fragrant infancy of opening flowers
Flow'd to my senses in that melting kiss.

Southern's Disappointment.
The kiss you take is paid by that you give;
The joy is mutual, and I'm still in debt.

Lord Lansdown's Heroic Love.

I felt the while a pleasing kind of smart,
The kiss went tingling to my very heart.
When it was gone, the sense of it did stay,
The sweetness cling'd upon my lips all day,
Like drops of honey loth to fall away.

Dryden. She brought her cheek up close, and lean'd on his; At which he whisper'd kisses back on hers. Dryden's All for Love.

Oh! let me live for ever on those lips!
The nectar of the gods to these is tasteless.
Dryden's Amphitryon.

Why thou so suddenly art gone, Lost in the moment thou art won?

A true knight;

Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word,
Speaking in deeds, and deedless in his tongue;
Not soon provok'd, nor, being provok'd, soon calm'd:
His heart and hand both open, and both free;
For what he has, he gives; what thinks, he shows;
Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty,
Nor dignifies an impure thought in breath:
Manly as Hector, but more dangerous;
For Hector, in his blaze of wrath, subscribes
To tender objects, but he, in heat of action,
Is more vindictive than jealous love.

Shaks. Troilus and Cressida. A lac'd hat, worsted stockings, and-noble old

soul!

A fine ribbon and cross in his breast button-hole; Just such as our prince, who nor reason nor fun dreads,

Inflicts, without e'en a court-martial, on hundreds. Moore's Fudge Family.

My good blade carves the casques of men,

My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,

Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,

The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel:

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

Tennyson's Sir Galahad.

A king can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,—
But an honest man's aboon his might.

These are not the romantic times So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,

Burns's Poems.

So dazzling to the dreaming boy, Ours are the days of fact, not fable, Of knights, but not of the round table, Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy.

Remember that the curs'd desire to know,
Offspring of Adam! was thy source of woe,
Why wilt thou then renew the vain pursuit,
And rashly catch at the forbidden fruit;
With empty labour and eluded strife
Secking, by knowledge, to attain to life;
For ever from that fatal tree debarr'd,
Which flaming swords and angry cherubs guard?
Prior's Soloman.

Voracious learning, often over-fed,
Digests not into sense her motley meal,
This bookcase, with dark booty almost burst,
This forager on others' wisdom, leaves
Her native farm, her reason, quite untill'd.

Young's Night Thoughts.

Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords
Light, but not heat; it leaves you undevout,
Frozen at heart, while speculation shines.

Young's Night Thoughts.

The clouds may drop down titles and estates;
Wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought;
Sought before all, but (how unlike all else
We seek on earth!) 'tis never sought in vain.
Young's Night Thoughts.
One science only will one genius fit,
So vast is art, so narrow human wit.

Pope's Essay on Criticism. Man loves knowledge, and the beams of truth More welcome touch his understanding's eye, Than all the blandishments of sound his ear, Than all of taste his tongue.

Akenside.

Knowledge hath a 'wildering tongue, And she will stoop and lead you to the stars, And witch you with her mysteries — till gold Is a forgotten dross, and power and fame Toys of an hour, and woman's careless love Light as the breath that breaks it.

Byron's Manfred. |

Shaks. Tempest

Porteus's Death.

Oft did the harvest to the sickle yield,
Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe hath broke;
How jocund did they drive their teams afield,
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Gray's Elegy.
From labour health, from health contentment
springs.
Beattie's Minstrel.
What happiness the rural maid attends,
In cheerful labour while each day she spends!
She gratefully receives what Heaven has sent,
And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.
She never feels the spleen's imagin'd pains,
Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;
She never loses life in thoughtless ease,
Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;
Her homespun dress in simple neatness lies,
And for no glaring equipage she sighs:
No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,
And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.

Gay.

Here sun-brown'd Labour swings his Cyclop arms,
Long are the furrows he must trace between
The ocean's azure and the prairie's green;
Full many a blank his destin'd realm displays,
Yet see the promise of his riper days;
Far through yon depths the panting engine moves,
His chariot's ringing in their steel-shod grooves;
And Eric's naiad flings her diamond wave
O'er the wild sea-nymph in her distant cave.

O. W. Holmes.

How blest the farmer's simple life!
How pure the joy it yields!
Far from the world's tempestuous strife,
Free 'mid the scented fields!

C. W. Everest.

"Go till the ground" — said God to man,"Subdue the earth, it shall be thine;" How grand, how glorious was the plan!

How wise the Law divine.

And none of Adam's race can draw

A title, save beneath this Law,

To hold the world in trust;

Farth is the Lord's, and He hath sworn

That ere old Time has reach'd his bourne,

It shall reward the Just!

Mrs. Hale's Poems.

Of his own heart, and help to lift

The tune?"The race is to the swift!"
Miss Barrett's Poems.

What are we sent on earth for? Say, to toil!
Nor seek to leave the tending of thy vines
For all the heat o' the sun, till it declines,
And death's mild curfew shall from work assoil.
Miss Barrett's Poems.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

Longfellow's Poems High curl'd the smoke from the humble roof with dawning's earliest bird,

And the tinkle of the anvil, first of the village sounds was heard;

The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song,

Told, steadfastly and merrily, toil roll'd the hours along. Street's Poems

-Give me the fair one, in country or city,
Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,
While plying the needle with exquisite art.
Samuel Woodworth
"Labour is worship"-the robin is singing:
"Labour is worship"- the wild bee is ringing.
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing,

Speaks to thy soul out of nature's great heart.
Mrs. Osgood's Poems.
Labour is life!-'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust assaileth
Mrs. Osgood's Poems