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What can I now of thee to Time report, Save thy fond country made thy impious sport, Her fortune and her hope the victims of thy own? But, spite of every gloss of envious minds, The owl-eyed race whom virtue's lustre blinds, Who sagely prove that each man hath his price, I still believed thy aim from blemish free, I yet, even yet, believe it, spite of thee, And all thy painted pleas to greatness and to vice. Corruption vaunted her bewitching spoils, O'er court, o'er senate, spread in pomp her toils, And call'd herself the state's directing soul: Till Curio, like a good magician, tried With Eloquence and Reason at his side, By strength of holier spells the enchantress to control.

Waked in the strife the public Genius rose More keen, more ardent from his long repose; Deep through her bounds the city felt his call; Each crowded haunt was stirr'd beneath his power, And murmuring challenged the deciding hour Or that too vast event, the hope and dread of all. O Alfred, father of the English name, O valiant Edward, first in civil fame, O William, height of public virtue pure, Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye, Behold the sum of all your labours nigh, Your plans of law complete, your ends of rule secure.

O soul from faith estranged! O Albion, oft to flattering vows a prey! What rushing palsy took thy strength away? Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved-- The man so great, so honour'd, so beloved-- Whom the dead envied and the living bless'd-- This patient slave by tinsel bonds allured-- This wretched suitor for a boon abjured-- Whom those that fear'd him scorn; that trusted him, detest?

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With all that habit of familiar fame, Sold to the mockery of relentless foes, And doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in shame, To act with burning brow and throbbing heart A poor deserter's dull exploded part, To slight the favour thou canst hope no more, Renounce the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind, Charge thy own lightness on thy country's mind, And from her voice appeal to each tame foreign shore. O race erect! In their room See the grave queen of pageants, Honour, dwell Couch'd in thy bosom's deep tempestuous gloom, Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell.

Before her rites thy sickening reason flew, Divine Persuasion from thy tongue withdrew, While Laughter mock'd, or Pity stole a sigh: Can Wit her tender movements rightly frame Where the prime function of the soul is lame? Can Fancy's feeble springs the force of Truth supply? There vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced, From nations fetter'd, and from towns laid waste, For ever through the spacious courts resound: There long posterity's united groan, And the sad charge of horrors not their own, Assail the giant chiefs, and press them to the ground.

And still he asks them of the hidden plan Whence every treaty, every war began, Evolves their secrets and their guilt proclaims: And still his hands despoil them on the road Of each vain wreath by lying bards bestow'd, And crush their trophies huge, and raze their sculptured names.

Paradise Lost: Book 4

Low doth proud Wentworth to the stranger bend, And his dire welcome hardy Clifford speaks 'He comes, whom fate with surer arts prepared To accomplish all which we but vainly dared; Whom o'er the stubborn herd she taught to reign: Who soothed with gaudy dreams their raging power Even to its last irrevocable hour; Then baffled their rude strength, and broke them to the chain.

Where is the dread prophetic heat With which my bosom wont to beat? Where all the bright mysterious dreams Of haunted groves and tuneful streams, That woo'd my genius to divinest themes? Or have melodious airs the power To give one free, poetic hour? Or, from amid the Elysian train, The soul of Milton shall I gain, To win thee back with some celestial strain? O sacred soul! His numbers every sense control: And now again my bosom burns; The Muse, the Muse herself returns.

Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd, I hail'd the fair immortal guest, When first she seal'd me for her own, Made all her blissful treasures known, And bade me swear to follow Her alone. ODE XI. I feel a force divine, O Delia, win my thoughts to thine; That half the colour of thy life is mine. But thou, my friend--I hear thy sighs: Alas, I read thy downcast eyes; And thy tongue falters, and thy colour flies. So pensive all this absent hour? In vain with friendship's flattering name Thy passion veils its inward shame; Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame!

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O friend! Late did the farmer's fork o'erspread With recent soil the twice-mown mead, Tainting the bloom which Autumn knows: He whets the rusty coulter now, He binds his oxen to the plough, And wide his future harvest throws. Say, are the priests of Devon grown Friends to this tolerating throne, Champions for George's legal right? Have general freedom, equal law, Won to the glory of Nassau Each bold Wessexian squire and knight? With me the sulphurous treason old A far inferior part shall hold In that glad day's triumphal strain; And generous William be revered, Nor one untimely accent heard Of James, or his ignoble reign.

The tyrant from our shore, Like a forbidden demon, fled; And to eternal exile bore Pontific rage and vassal dread. There sunk the mouldering Gothic reign: New years came forth, a liberal train, Call'd by the people's great decree. That day, my friend, let blessings crown;-- Fill, to the demigod's renown From whom thou hast that thou art free. In vows to her who sways thy heart, Fair health, glad fortune, will we deal. Whether Aglaia's blooming cheek, Or the soft ornaments that speak So eloquent in Daphne's smile, Whether the piercing lights that fly From the dark heaven of Myrto's eye, Haply thy fancy then beguile.

Her genius still my bosom warms: No other maid for me hath charms, Or I have eyes for her alone. Once more I join the Thespian choir, And taste the inspiring fount again: O parent of the Grecian lyre, Admit me to thy powerful strain-- And lo, with ease my step invades The pathless vale and opening shades, Till now I spy her verdant seat; And now at large I drink the sound, While these her offspring, listening round.

By turns her melody repeat. I see Anacreon smile and sing, His silver tresses breathe perfume: His cheek displays a second spring Of roses, taught by wine to bloom. Away, deceitful cares, away, And let me listen to his lay; Let me the wanton pomp enjoy, While in smooth dance the light-wing'd Hours Lead round his lyre its patron powers, Kind Laughter and Convivial Joy. Broke from the fetters of his native land, Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords, With louder impulse and a threatening hand The Lesbian patriot [1] smites the sounding chords: Ye wretches, ye perfidious train, Ye cursed of gods and free-born men, Ye murderers of the laws, Though now ye glory in your lust, Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust, Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause.

But lo, to Sappho's melting airs Descends the radiant queen of love: She smiles, and asks what fonder cares Her suppliant's plaintive measures move: Why is my faithful maid distress'd? Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast? Say, flies he? But, O Melpomene, for whom Awakes thy golden shell again?

What mortal breath shall e'er presume To echo that unbounded strain? Majestic in the frown of years, Behold, the man of Thebes [2] appears: For some there are, whose mighty frame The hand of Jove at birth endow'd With hopes that mock the gazing crowd; As eagles drink the noontide flame; II. While the dim raven beats her weary wings, And clamours far below. Yet then did Pleasure's lawless throng, Oft rushing forth in loose attire, Thy virgin dance, thy graceful song Pollute with impious revels dire. O fair, O chaste, thy echoing shade May no foul discord here invade: Nor let thy strings one accent move, Except what earth's untroubled ear 'Mid all her social tribes may hear, And heaven's unerring throne approve.

Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat The fairest flowers of Pindus glow; The vine aspires to crown thy seat, And myrtles round thy laurel grow. Thy strings adapt their varied strain To every pleasure, every pain, Which mortal tribes were born to prove; And straight our passions rise or fall, As at the wind's imperious call The ocean swells, the billows move. When midnight listens o'er the slumbering earth, Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear: When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth, With airy murmurs touch my opening ear.

And ever watchful at thy side, Let Wisdom's awful suffrage guide The tenor of thy lay: To her of old by Jove was given To judge the various deeds of earth and heaven; 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway.

Oft as, to well-earn'd ease resign'd, I quit the maze where Science toils, Do thou refresh my yielding mind With all thy gay, delusive spoils. But, O indulgent, come not nigh The busy steps, the jealous eye Of wealthy care or gainful age; Whose barren souls thy joys disdain, And hold as foes to reason's reign Whome'er thy lovely works engage.


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When friendship and when letter'd mirth Haply partake my simple board, Then let thy blameless hand call forth The music of the Teian chord. Or if invoked at softer hours, Oh! But when from envy and from death to claim A hero bleeding for his native land; When to throw incense on the vestal flame Of Liberty my genius gives command, Nor Theban voice nor Lesbian lyre From thee, O Muse, do I require; While my presaging mind, Conscious of powers she never knew, Astonish'd, grasps at things beyond her view, Nor by another's fate submits to be confined.

Now, Hesper, guide my feet Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, Through yon wild thicket next the plain, Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane, Which leads to her retreat. The breeze their magic path attends, The stars shine out, the forest bends, The wakeful heifers gaze. No longer there the raptured eye The beauteous forms of earth or sky Surveys as in their Author's mind; And London shelters from the year Those whom thy social hours to share The Attic Muse design'd.

Many a scrape Page 20 had he rescued Clayton from, into which he had fallen from a more fastidious moral sense, a more scrupulous honor, than is for worldly profit either in the boy's or man's sphere; and Clayton, superior as he was, could not help loving and depending on him. The diviner part of man is often shame-faced and self-distrustful, ill at home in this world, and standing in awe of nothing so much as what is called common sense; and yet common sense very often, by its own keenness, is able to see that these unavailable currencies of another's mind are of more worth, if the world only knew it, than the ready coin of its own; and so the practical and the ideal nature are drawn together.

So Clayton and Russel had been friends from boyhood; had roomed together their four years in college; and, tho' instruments of a vastly different quality, had hitherto played the concerts of life with scarce a discord. In person, Russel was of about the medium size, with a well-knit, elastic frame, all whose movements were characterized by sprightliness and energy. He had a frank, open countenance, clear blue eyes, a high forehead shaded by clusters of curling brown hair; his flexible lips wore a good-natured yet half-sarcastic smile.

His feelings, though not inconveniently deep, were easily touched; he could be moved to tears or to smiles, with the varying humor of a friend; but never so far as to lose his equipoise--or, as he phrased it, forget what he was about. But we linger too long in description. We had better let the reader hear the dramatis persona, and judge for himself.

Odyssey (Pope)/Book VI

I say, old boy, how goes the world now? Now, my dear fellow, if I had the opportunities that you have--only to step into my father's shoes--I should be a lucky fellow.

Reading the theory is always magnificent and grand. But, then, come to the practice of it, and what do you find? Are legal examinations anything like searching after truth? Does not an advocate commit himself to one-sided views of his subject, and habitually ignore all the truth on the other side? Why, if I practised law according to my conscience, I should be chased out of court in a week. It's what I call a crotchety conscience--always in the way of your doing anything like anybody else.

I suppose, then, of course, you won't go into political life. You'd make a very imposing figure as senator. If political duties were what they were then,--if a gulf would open in Washington, for example,--you would be the fellow to plunge in, horse and all, for the good of the republic; or, if anything was to be done by putting your right hand in the fire and burning it off--or, if there were any Carthaginians who would cut off your eyelids, or roll you down hill in a barrel of nails, for truth and your country's sake,--you would be on hand for any such matter.

That's the sort of foreign embassy that Page 22 you would be after. All these old-fashioned goings on would suit you to a T; but as to figuring in purple and fine linen, in Paris or London, as American minister, you would make a dismal business of it. But, still, I thought you might practise law in a wholesome, sensible way,--take fees, make pleas with abundance of classical allusions, show off your scholarship, marry a rich wife, and make your children princes in the gates--all without treading on the toes of your too sensitive moral what-d'-ye-call-ems.

But you've done one thing like other folks, at least, if all's true that I've heard. Hear the fellow, now! How innocent we are! I suppose you think I have n't heard of your campaign in New York--carrying off that princess of little flirts, Miss Gordon.