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WHENCE-WHERE. WHERE were ye nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?

Again the flowers we loved to twine,

Wreath wild round every tree;
Again the summer sunbeams shine,

That cannot shine on thee.
Verdure returns with fresher bloom

To vale and mountain brow;
All nature breaks as from the tomb-

But “Where art thou?" Thomas Dale.

From whence to where we know not, sent,

A fevered dream to try,
Then sink from darkness into night:

This 't is to live and die!
Christ touch'd those ears that could not hear,

And eyes that could not see,
And said, Leave whence you came to God,
But where you go-to Me.



The vessel which lies here at last,
Had once stout ribs and topping mast,
And whate'er wind then might prevail,
Was ready for a row or sail.
It now lies idle on its side,
Forgetful o'er the waves to glide;
And yet there have been days of yore,
When pretty maids their posies bore :
To crown its brow, its deck to trim,
And freight it with a world of whim.-Catullus.

Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest,
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,
The craz’d creation of misguided whim. Burns.




HE trudged unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.

He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew, when he wish’d, he could whistle them

Goldsmith. The wind, A sightless labourer, whistles at his work.


WIDOW. AND will she yet debase her eyes on me, That cropt the golden prime of this sweet prince, And made her widow to a woeful bed?—Shakspere.

The new-made widow too I've sometimes spied,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Listless she crawls along in doleful black,
While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lonely grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up
The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious of the theme.


See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale,
Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's veil;
Alone she wanders where with him she trod,
No arm to stay her, but she leans on God.

Mother! thy name is widow-well

I know no love of mine can fill
The waste place of thy heart, or dwell

Within one sacred -still
Lean on the faithful bosom of thy son,
My parent, thou art mine, my only one.

George W. Bethune.


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You are my true and honourable wife;
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.


The sum of all that makes a just man happy
Consists in the well-choosing of his wife;
And there, well to discharge it, does require
Equality of years, of birth, of fortune;
For beauty being poor, and not cried up
By birth or wealth, can truly mix with neither.
And wealth, when there's such difference in years
And fair descent, must make the yoke uneasy.

Oh Marriage! happiest, easiest, safest state;
Let debauchers and drunkards scorn thy rites,
Who, in their nauseous draughts and lusts, profane
Both thee and heav'n, by whom thou wert ordain'd.
How can the savage call it loss of freedom,
Thus to converse with, thus to gaze upon
A faithful, beauteous friend?
Blush not, my fair one, that thy love applauds thee,
Nor be it painful to my wedded wife
That my full heart o'erflows in praise of thee;
Thou art by law, by interest, passion mine.
Passion and reason join in love of thee,
Thus, through a world of calumny and fraud,
We pass both unreproached, both undeceived.
While, in each other's interest and happiness,
We without art all faculties employ,
And all our senses without guilt enjoy. Heywood.

Give me, next good, an understanding wife,

By nature wise, not learned by much art;
Some knowledge on her side will all my life

More scope for conversation then impart;
Besides her inborn virtue fortify;
They are most good who best know why.

Sir Thomas Overbury.

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As good and wise; so she be fit for me,

That is, to will, and not to will the same; My Wife is my adopted self, and she

As me, to what I love, so love must frame. And then by marriage both in one concur, Woman converts to man, not man to her.

Sir T. Overbury. O! my love's like the stedfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears, Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Allan Cunningham. Star of my Heaven, by which my soul steers right,

Thro’ storm and calm, thro' sorrow and dismayThou trusty beacon in life's dreary night,

A pleasant song to cheer me on my way,

A gentle voice to chide me if I stray,'Tis vain to pile up titles! my sweet Queen

So at your feet this loving song I lay, Which but for your kind smiles had never been, Therefore 't is due to thee! wife of the brow serene!

Thomas Powell.

The world well tried--the sweetest thing in life
Is the unclouded welcome of a wife. N. P. Willis.

A maid of fullest heart she was;

Her spirit's lovely flame,
Nor dazzled nor surprised, because

It always burned the same;
And in the heaven-lit path she trod

Fair was the wife foreshewn,-
A Mary in the house of God,

A Martha in her own. Coventry Patmore.

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For the wily snake,
Whatever slights none would suspicious mark,
As from his wit and native subtility

Wisdom 's above suspecting wiles;
The queen of learning gravely smiles. Swift.

Life essayed the surest wile,
Gilding herself with Laura's smile.- Roscommon.

Even innocence itself hath many a wile.


Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;
For what I will, I willand there's an end.

I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape,
And bid me hold my peace.


Will is the prince, and Wit the counseller,

Which do for common good in council sit, And when Wit is resolved, Will lends her power,

To execute what is desired by Wit. Davies.

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,
Alike they ’re needful to the flower;
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done.
Oh, ne'er will I at life repine,-
Enough that thou hast made it mine.
Where falls the shadow cold of death,
I yet will sing with parting breath,
As comes to me or shade or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

Sarah F. Adams.

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