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Oh, happiness! our being's end and aim,
Good, pleasure, ease, content-whate'er thy name:
That something still which prompts th' eternal
sigh,

For which we bear to live, or dare to die,
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise:
Plant of celestial seed! if dropp'd below,
Say in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow'
Pope's Essay on Man.
Ask of the learn'd the way? The learn'd are
blind;

?

This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind;
Some place the bliss in action, some in ease,
Those call it pleasure, and contentment these:
Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain;
Some, swell'd to gods, confess ev'n virtue vain;
Or, indolent to each extreme they fall,
To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all.

Pope's Essay on Man.

Know, all the good that individuals find,
Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence.
But health consists with temperance alone;
And peace, oh virtue! peace is all thy own.
The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain;
But these less taste them, as they worse obtain.
Pope's Essay on Man.

Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere,
'Tis no where to be found, or every where.
Pope's Essay on Man.

Order is heav'n's first law; and this confest,
Some are and must be greater than the rest,
More rich, more wise, but who infers from hence
That such are happier, shocks all common sense.
Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,
If all are equal in their happiness:
But mutual wants this happiness increase;
All nature's difference keeps all nature's peace.
Condition, circumstance, is not the thing;
Bliss is the same in subject or in king,
In who obtain defence, or who defend,
In him who is, or him who finds a friend:

Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combin'd,
Can make the happy man, without the mind,
Where judgment sits clear-sighted, and surveys
The chain of reason with unerring gaze;
Where fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes,
His fairer scenes, and bolder figures rise;
Where social love exerts her soft command,
And plays the passions with a tender hand,
Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife,
And all the moral harmony of life.
Oh, then the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 't was happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance

Thomson.

Blair's Grave.

Blessed, thrice blessed days! but ah! how short!
Bless'd as the pleasing charms of holy men,
But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone.
O slippery state of things! What sudden turns,
What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf
Of man's sad history! to-day most happy;
And, ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject!
How scant the space between these vast extremes!
Blair's Grave

Our aim is happiness; 't is yours, 't is mine,
He said, 't is the pursuit of all that live:
Yet few attain it, if 't was e'er attain'd.
But they the widest wander from the mark,
Who through the flowery path of sauntering joy
Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage
Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Healtà.

Its no' in books, its no' in lear,
To make us truly blest:

If happiness has not her seat
And centre in the breast;

We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest.

Burns's Epistle to Davie
Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,

Heaven breathes through every member of the Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

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It is ever thus with nappiness :

It is the gay to-morrow of the mind That never comes.

Proctor's Mirandola.

This was his brightest hour, too bright
For human weal;— a glaring light,
Like sun-beam thro' the rent cloud pouring
On the broad lake, when storms are roaring;
Bright centre of a wild and sombre scene;
More keenly bright than summer's settled sheen.
Joanna Baillie.

An hour like this is worth a thousand pass'd
In pomp or ease-'t is present to the last!
Years glide away untold-'tis still the same;
As fresh, as fair as on the day it came!

Rogers's Human Life.

True happiness is not the growth of earth,
The soil is fruitless if you seek it there:
"T is an exotic of celestial birth,
And never blooms but in celestial air.
Sweet plant of paradise! its seeds are sown
In here and there a breast of heavenly mould,
It rises slow, and buds, but ne'er was known
To blossom here -the climate is too cold.
R. B. Sheridan.
Vain schemer! think not to prolong thy joy!
But cherish while it lasts the heavenly boon!
Expand thy sails! thy little bark shall fly
With the full tide of pleasure! though it soon
May feel the influence of the changeful moon,
It yet is thine! then let not doubts obscure,
With cloudy vapours veil thy brilliant noon,
Nor let suspicion's tainted breath impure,
Poison the favouring gale which speeds thy course
secure!
Mrs. Tighe's Psyche.
Oh, happy you! who, blest with present bliss,
See not with fatal prescience future tears,
Nor the dear moment of enjoyment miss
Through gloomy discontent, or sullen fears
Foreboding many a storm for coming years;
Change is the lot of all. Ourselves with scorn
Perhaps shall view what now so fair appears;
And wonder whence the fancied charm was born
Which now with vain despair from our fond grasp
Mrs. Tighe's Psyche.
What deem'd they of the future or the past?
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast.
Byron's Island.

is torn.

Sweet, as the desert-fountain's wave To lips just cool'd in time to save.

Byron's Bride of Abydos. All who joy would win

Must share it-happiness was born a twin.

Byron.

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Hail! harvest-home! To thee the muse of nature pours the song, By instinct taught to warble! Instinct pure, Sacred, and grateful, to that pow'r ador'd, Which warms the sensate being, and reveals The soul self-evident, beyond the dreams Of visionary sceptics! Scene sublime! Where the rich earth presents her golden treasures; Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart Delights unspeakable! where seas and skies, And hills and valleys, colours, odours, dews, Diversify the work of nature's God!

Mary Robinson.
The feast is such as earth, the general mother,
Pours from her fairest bosom, when she smiles
In the embrace of autumn. To each other,
As some fond parent fondly reconciles
Her warring children, she their wrath beguiles
With their own sustenance; they, relenting, weep.
Shelley.

Around him ply the reaper band,
With lightsome heart and eager hand,
And mirth and music cheer the toil,-
While sheaves that stud the russet soil,
And sickles gleaming in the sun,
Tell jocund harvest is begun.

My glowing heart beats high

At the sight of burnish'd gold;

But 't is not that which the miser's eye
Delighteth to behold;

A brighter wealth by far

Than the deep mine's yellow vein, Is seen around, in the far hills crown'd With sheaves of burnish'd grain.

Then glory to the steel

There's merry laughter in the field,

And harmless jest and frolic rout⚫ And the last harvest wain goes by, With its rustling load so pleasantly,

To the glad and clamorous harvest shoutThere are busy gleaners in the field,—

The old, whose work is never done, And eager, laughing, childish bands, Rubbing the ears in their little hands, And singing 'neath the harvest sun.

Mary Howitt The glorious landscape smiles and melts; Green wave-like meadows here are spread, There woodland shades are sweetly shed, In deepening gold there glows the wheat, And there the rye-field's vying sheet.

HATRED.

Street's Poems.

Why should'st thou hate men? They never flatter'd thee: what hast thou given ? Shaks. Timon of Athens.

Hate all, curse all: show charity to none;
But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone,
Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogs
What thou deny'st to men; let prisons swallow
them,

Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted woods,

And may diseases lick up their false bloods.
Shaks. Timon of Athens.
Be abhorr'd
His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!
Destruction fang mankind!

Shaks. Timon of Athens.

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind,
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

Shaks. Timon of Athens.

Pringe. Nothing I'll bear from thee,

But nakedness, thou detestable town!
Timon will to the woods; where he shall find
The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind
Shaks. Timon of Athens,

Nor sleep, nor sanctuary,

Being naked, sick; nor fane, nor capitol, The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Eliza Cook. Their rotten privilege and custom against My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother's guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in 's heart.

That shines in the reaper's hand; And thanks to God, who has bless'd the sod, And crowns the harvest land!

Eliza Cook.

Shaks. Coriolanus.

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What! were you snarling all, before I came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat,
And turn you all your hatred now on me?

Shaks. Richard III.
Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur ;
For by that name, as oft as Lancaster
Doth speak of you, his cheeks look pale; and with
A rising sigh, he wisheth you in heaven.

Shaks Henry IV. Part I. Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all, That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring, To cross me from the gocen me I look for! Shaks. Henry VI. Part III. Then, since the heavens have shap'd my body so, Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother:

Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state.

I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York;
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part III.

Had the passions of thy heart burst out,
I fear we shoul nave seen decypher'd there,
More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,
Than yet can be imagin'd, or suppos'd.

Shaks. Henry VI. Part. 1.
How like a fawning publican he looks!
I hate him, for he is a Christian:
But more, for that, in low simplicity,
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
Shaks. Merchant of Venice.
I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond :
I have sworn an oath, that I will have my bond:
Thou call'dst me dog, before thou hadst a cause;
But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Shaks. Merchant of Venice. You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer that: But, say, it is my humour: Is it answer'd ? Shaks. Merchant of Venice. I'll not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors.

Shaks. Merchant of Venice. And therefore since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken daysI am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Shaks. Richard III.

Thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,
A chafed lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost
hold.
Shaks. King John.

It is the wit, the policy of sin,
To hate those men we have abused.

Sir W. Davenant's Just Italian.

I see thou art implacable, more deaf
To prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and

seas

Are reconcil'd at length, and sea to shore :
Thy anger, unappeasable, still rages,

And this word-love, which grey-beards call Eternal tempest never to be calm.

divine,

Be resident in men like one another,

And not in me; I am myself alone.

Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.
P

Milton's Samson Agonistes

I know thee not, nor ever saw till now
Sight more detestable than him and thee.

Milton's Paradise Lost

To thee I call,

But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down.
Milton's Paradise Lost.

Ejected out of church and state,
And all things but the people's hate

Butler's Hudibras.

I had much rather see

A crested dragon, or a basilisk;
Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.
Dryden's Don Sebastian.
No voice of friendly salutation cheer'd him,
None wish'd his arms might thrive, or bade God
speed him:

But through a staring, ghastly-looking crowd,
Unhail'd, unblest, with heavy heart he went.

Rowe's Lady Jane Grey.
Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud,
And scornful hisses run through all the crowd.
Pope's Temple of Fame.
I'll keep my way alone, and burn away.
Evil or good I care not, so I spread
Tremendous desolation on my road:
I'll be remember'd as huge meteors are;
From the dismay they scatter.

--

Proctor's Mirandola. Disgust conceal'd

Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.

Cowper's Task.

Oh, that I could but mate him in his might,
Oh, that we were on the dark wave together,
With but one plank between us and destruction,
That I might grasp him in these desperate arms,
And plunge with him amid the weltering billows,
And view him gasp for life.

Maturin's Bertram. By heaven and all its host he shall not perish! Bertram.-By hell and all its host he shall not live! This is no transient flash of fugitive passionHis death hath been my life for years of misery

Which else I had not liv'd

I'pon that thought, and not on food, I fed,
Upon that thought, and not on sleep, I rested-
I came to do the deed that must be done -
Nor thou, nor sheltering angels, could prevent me.
Maturin's Bertram.

The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendship's grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.

|Warp'd by the world in disappointment's school,
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe,
He curs'd those virtues as the cause of ill,
And not the traitors who betray'd him still;
Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men,
Had left him joy, and means to give again.
Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her
force,

He hated men too much to feel remorse,
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,
To pay the injuries of some on all.

Byron's Corsair. If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence! The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though Their sting is honester.

Byron's Two Foscari.

From thy false tears I did distil
An essence which hath strength to kill;
From thy own heart I then did wring
The black blood in its blackest spring;
From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake,
For there it coil'd as in a brake;
From thy own lip I drew the charm
Which gave all these their chiefest harm;
In proving every poison known,

I found the strongest was thine own.

Byron's Manfred. Down to the dust! and as thou rott'st away, Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. Byron's Sketch from Private Life. Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press, To seize and share the dear caress; But love itself could never pant For all that beauty sighs to grant, With half the fervour hate bestows Upon the last embrace of foes.

Byron's Giaour.

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Scott's Marmion.

Willia

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