DEATH-GRAVE. Yet why should death be link'd with fear? And waft the spirit to the sky. MRS. A. B. WELEY, There lay the warrior and the son of song, Had mcv'd the nations with resistless sway. MRS. NORTON's Dream. Ah! it is sad when one thus link'd departs! MRS. NORTON's Dream. Oh! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung, W. G. CLARK. Oh, there is a sweetness in beauty's close, His few surviving comrades saw And the red field was won; They saw in death his eyelids close Like flowers at set of sun. J. G. PERCIVAL FITZ-GREEN HALLECK. All at rest now-all dust !-wave flows on wave, Pause for a while, and murmur, “All must die "" The New Timon 179 780 DECAY And death is terrible-the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, Of agony, are his! FITZ-GREEN HALLECK. Here may we muse at this lone midnight hour, In the deep stillness of that dreamless state And Death himself, that ceaseless dun, W. C. LODGE, W. C. LODGE. HON. NICHOLAS BIDDLE Methinks it were no pain to die To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, DECAY. It is sad To see the light of beauty wane away, Know eyes are dimming, bosoms shrivelling, feet To lose hope, care not for the coming thing, And feel all things go to decay with us. BAILEY'S Festus How he did seem to dive into their hearts, Isl SHAKSPEASZ. SHAKSPEARE. SHAKSPEARE Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. SHAKSPEARE Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile; Ana cry content to that which grieves my heart; And wet my cheek with artificial tears; SHAKSPEARE. גאן DECEIT - HYPOCRISY Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep Over his country's wrongs; and, by this face, There is no vice so simple, but assumes SHAKSPEA SHAKSPEAKE, You vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, your hearts. To hide their prickles till they're grown, So a smooth knave does greater feats BUTLER. Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, POPE Before her face her handkerchief she spread, To hide the flood of tears she did not shed. POPE. DECEIT - HYPOCRISY. "T is not my talent to conceal my thoughts, O what a tangled web we weave, 183 ADDISON'S Cato. SCOTT's Marmion. Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, BYRON to Southey. You're wrong:-he was the mildest manner'd man You never could divine his real thought. BYRON'S Don Juan. Even innocence itself hath many a wile. BYRON'S Don Juan. Of all who flock'd to swell or see the show, To sigh, yet feel no pain, To weep, yet know not why, To sport an hour with beauty's chain, To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none. Their friendship is a lurking snare, Their honour but an idle breath, Their smile, the smile that traitors wear, MOORE. MOORE W. G. SIMMS. |