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Then, if by gathering woes oppressed
Thou seest fair virtue here encumbered,
Amid the sons of glory numbered,
To question or complaint unholy,
And bliss to rapture warms,
And every pang disarms.
May medicate in vain:
In all her pleasures, pain.
That He that rules above
C. C. Colton,
Oh, sad vicissitude
But there's a sure vicissitude below,
Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound;
All at her work the village maiden sings; Nor, as she turns the giddy wheel around,
Revolves the sad vicissitude of things. Gifford.
VICTORY. 'Tis not victory to win the field, Unless we make our enemies to yield More to our justice, than our force; and so As well instruct, as overcome our foe. Gomersall.
“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout:
I could not well make out.
After the field was won;
Lay rotting in the sun;
VIOLENCE. THESE violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die; like fire and powder, Which as they meet consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in its own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite.—Shakspere.
He does mainly vary from my sense,
VIRTUE. I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; And would my father had left me no more! For all the rest is held at such a rate, As brings a thousand fold more care to keep, Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Shakspere.
Forgive me this my virtue:
Virtue may be assail'd, but never hurt;
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds,
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul.
Pope. What nothing earthly gives or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy, Is virtue's prize.
The only amaranthine flower on earth
Virtue on herself relying,
Every passion hushed to rest,
In the hope of being blest.
Virtue! how many as a lowly thing,
Born of weak folly, scorn thee! but thy name Alone they know; upon thy soaring wing
They 'll fear to mount, nor could thy sacred flame Burn in their baser hearts: the biting thorn,
The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field; Yet blest is he whose daring bides the scorn
Of the frail, easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay
To lure the infant; if thy paths, to view, Were always pleasant, crime's worst sons would lay Their daggers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth pursue.
Mrs. Maria Brooks
VISION. THE day seems long, but night is odious; No sleep but dreams; no dreams but visions strange.
Sir P. Sidney. Him God vouchsafed To call by vision from his father's house, Into a land which he will shew him. Milton.
Visions on visions! how the moving throng, These bright remembrances on fancy press Buried enjoyments as I pass! The song Sung in the hushed vale’s verdant loneliness; The storm, the sun, the rainbow, the vain guess Of notes heard in the distance; the advance Of bells upon the wind; the loveliness Of flowers unwithering in the sun's hot glance; The thousand hopes that high in youth's brisk pulses dance.
J. H. Wiffin.
The same—and oh, how beautiful! the same
T. K. Hervey.
Thou visionary thing,
Flowers of a vanished spring;
But till life's cords untwine,
That pensive face of thine. W. Howitt.