Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

Think not, the good,

The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done,
Shall die forgotten all; the poor, the pris'ner,
The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow,
Who daily own the bounty of thy hand,
Shall cry to Heav'n, and pull a blessing on thee.
Rowe's Jane Shore, a. 1, s. 2.
How few, like thee, enquire the wretched out,
And court the offices of soft humanity.
Like thee, reserve their raiment for the naked,
Reach out their bread to feed the crying orphan,
Or mix the pitying tears with those that weep!

Ibid.
Great minds, like Heaven, are pleased in doing good,
Though the ungrateful subjects of their favours
Are barren in return.

Rowe's Tamerlane.

The generous pride of virtue

Disdains to weigh too nicely the returns

Her bounty meets with-Like the liberal gods,
From her own gracious nature she bestows,
Nor stoops to ask reward.

Thomson's Coriolanus, a. 3, s. 2.

The truly generous is the truly wise;

And he who loves not others, lives unblest.

Hume's Douglas.

But to the generous still-improving mind,
That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy,
Diffusing kind beneficence around,

Boastless, as now descends the silent dew;
To him the long review of order'd life
Is inward rapture, only to be felt.

Thomson's Seasons-Summer.

There are, while human miseries abound,
A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth,
Without one fool or flatterer at your board,
Without one hour of sickness or disgust.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. 2.

CHARITY CHASTITY-CHILDREN.

I mean the man, who when the distant poor
Need help, denies them nothing but his name.

CHASTITY.

35

Cowper's Task, b. 4.

So dear to Heav'n is saintly chastity,
That when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liv'ry'd angels lacquey her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.

Milton's Comus:.

In thy fair brow there's such a legend writ
Of chastity, as blinds the adult'rous eye :
Not the mountain ice,

Congeal'd to chrystal, is so frosty chaste
As thy victorious soul, which conquers man,
And man's proud tyrant passion.

Dryden's Albion and Albanus.

CHILDREN..

Children blessings seem, but torments are,

When young our folly, and when old our fear.

Otway's Don Carlos..

Thanks to the gods, my boy has done his duty!
-Portius, when I am dead, be sure you place
His urn near mine.

Addison's Cato.

Look here and weep with tenderness and transport!
What is all tasteless luxury to this?

To these best joys, which holy love bestows?
Oh Nature, parent Nature, thou alone

Art the true judge of what can make us happy.
Thomson's Agamemnon.

Why was my pray'r accepted? why did Heav'n
anger
hear me, when I ask'd a son ?

In

Hannah More's Moses, p. 1.

When heaven and angels, earth and earthly things
Do leave the guilty in their guiltiness—
A cherub's voice doth whisper in a child's,
There is a shrine within thy little heart

Where I will hide, nor hear the trump of doom.
Maturin's Bertram, a. 5, s. 2.

Thou art my daughter-never loved as now-
Thou mountain maid,-thou child of liberty!
Urilda! Well from Uric's height I named thee,
Free as its breezes,-purer than its snows!

Maturin's Fredolfo.

He smiles, and sleeps!-sleep on

And smile, thou little, young inheritor

Of a world scarce less young: sleep on, and smile! Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering Byron's Cain, a. 3, s. 1.

And innocent !

Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
To hail his father: while his little form
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain!
The childless cherubs well might envy thee
The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain!
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but
His heart will, and thine own too.

Self-flattered, unexperienced, high in hope,

Ibid.

When young, with sanguine cheer, and streamers gay We cut our cable, launch into the world,

And fondly dream each wind and star our friend.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 8.

O what passions then

What melting sentiments of kindly care,

On the new parents seize.

Thomson's Seasons-Spring

CHURCHYARD-CLEANLINESS-CLERGY.

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,
To teach the young idea how to shoot,
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,
To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix
The generous purpose in the glowing breast!

37

Thomson's Seasons-Spring.

Meantime a smiling offspring rises round,
And mingles both their graces. By degrees,
The human blossom blows; and every day,
Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm,
The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.

CHURCHYARD.

The solitary, silent, solemn scene,

Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together; where the slave

Ibid.

Rests from his labours; where th' insulting proud Resigns his power; the miser drops his hoard; Where human folly sleeps. Dyer's Ruins of Rome.

Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd

there :

Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs,
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd.
Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.'
Blair's Grave.

CLEANLINESS.

Even from the body's purity, the mind
Receives a secret sympathetic aid.

Thomson's Seasons-Summer.

CLERGY.

Why seek we truth from priests?

The smiles of courtiers, and the harlot's tears

The tradesman's oath, and mourning of an heir,
Are truths to what priests tell!

Oh! why has priesthood privilege to lie,
And yet to be believ'd?

If we must pray

Lee's Edipus.

Rear in the streets bright altars to the gods,
Let virgins' hands adorn the sacrifice;

And not a grey-beard forging priest come there,
Το pry into the bowels of their victim,

And with their dotage mad the gaping world.

Is not the care of souls a load sufficient?
Are not your holy stipends paid for this?
Were you not bred apart from worldly noise,
To study souls, their cures, and their diseases?
The province of the soul is large enough
To fill up every cranny of your time,

Ibid.

And leave you much to answer, if one wretch
Be damn'd by your neglect. Dryden's Don Sebastian.

I tell thee, Mufti, if the world were wise,
They would not wag one finger in thy quarrels :
Your heav'n you promise, but our earth you covet,
The Phaetons of mankind, who fire that world
Which you were sent, by preaching but to warm. Ibid.

Bloated with ambition, pride, and avarice,
You swell to counsel kings and govern kingdoms.
Content you with monopolizing heav'n,
And let this little hanging ball alone:

For give you but a foot of conscience there,
And you, like Archimedes, toss the globe.

I met a reverend, fat, old, gouty friar,
With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin
Might rest upon 't: a true son of the church!
Fresh-colour'd, and well-thriving on his trade.

Ibid.

Dryden's Spanish Friar.

« AnteriorContinuar »