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And see! how fast advancing o'er the plain
Autumn departs.-From Gala's fields no more
Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered
grain. Deem’st thou, these sadden'd scenes have pleasure
still? Lov'st thou through autumn's fading realms to
stray, To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill, To listen to the wood's expiring lay, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain; O’er the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,
And moralize on mortal joy and pain?O! if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel's strain.
Scott. Season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
But see the fading many-coloured woods,
Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief,
AND greedy Avarice by him did ride
Accursed usury was all his trade,
His life was nigh unto death's dore yplaste; And threadbare cote and cobbled shoes he ware, He scarce good morsell all his life did taste, But both from backe and belly still did spare, To fill his bags, and richesse to compare; Yet child, ne kinsman, living had he none To leave them to; but thorough daily care To get, and nightly fear to lose his owne; He led a wretched life unto himselfe unknowne.
Most wretched wight whom nothing might suffice, Whose greedy lust did lack in greatest store, Whose need had end, but no end covetise,
Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him poor, Who had enough, yet wished evermore.
In my most ill-composed affection, such
This avarice of praise in times to come,
Of age’s avarice I cannot see
Ambition's place doth hold,
The miser's curse is gold;
Unto the means of ends;
C. C. Colton.
AVENGE. All those great battles which thou boasts to win Through strife and bloodshed, and avengement, Now praised, hereafter thou shalt repent.
Spenser. Till Jove, no longer patient, took his time, To avenge with thunder your audacious crime.
Dryden. Ere this he had returned with fury driven By his avengers; since no place like this Can fit his punishment nor their revenge.
But just disease to luxury succeeds,
And every death its own avenger breeds. Pope. A wrong avenged is doubly perpetrated, Two sinners stand where lately stood but one.
Awkward, embarrass’d, stiff, without the skill
Not all the pumice of the polished town
O. W. Ilolmes.
Dryden, from Lucretius.
messenger of peace and love; A resting-place for innocence on earth, a link between
angels and men; Yet is it a talent of trust, a loan to be rendered
back with interest; A delight, but redolent with care; honey sweet, but
lacking not the bitter. For character groweth day by day, and all things aid
it in unfolding; And the bent unto good or evil may be given in the hours of infancy.
M. F. Tupper.
What so strong, But wanting rest will also want of might? The sun, that measures heaven all day long, At night doth bait his steeds the ocean waves among.
Spenser. Oh, cunning enemy! that to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue.