And see! how fast advancing o'er the plain Körner. Autumn departs.—From Gala's fields no more Come rural sounds, our kindred banks to cheer; Blest with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er, No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear; The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear; And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain; 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 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. Season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness! Scott. 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. Keats. But see the fading many-coloured woods, To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse Thomson. Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief, All green was vanished save of pine and yew, And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread. Crabbe. AVARICE. AND greedy Avarice by him did ride With precious metall full as they might hold, And right and wrong ylike in equall balance waide. 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. There grows In my most ill-composed affection, such Spenser. I should cut off the nobles for their lands.-Shakspere. This avarice of praise in times to come, Dryden. Unnumbered maladies man's joints invade, Unlocks his gold, and counts ít till he dies.-Johnson Of age's avarice I cannot see What colour, ground, or reason there can be; Pale avarice in vulgar minds Both start alike, to gain a good Denham. C. C. Colton. 74 AVENGE. AWKWARDNESS. 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, toɔk his time, Ere this he had returned with fury driven But just disease to luxury succeeds, Dryden. Milton. A wrong avenged is doubly perpetrated, Pope. T. Mc' Kellar. AWKWARDNESS. WHAT's a fine person, or a beauteous face, * * * * * Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill Desirous seems to run away from t' other.-Churchill. Not all the pumice of the polished town By this one mark-he's awkward in his face. O. W. Holmes. BABE. THUS, like a sailor by the tempest hurl'd Helpless of all that human wants require; Exposed upon inhospitable earth, From the first moment of his hapless birth; Dryden, from Lucretius. The babe had all that infant care beguiles, And early knew his mother in her smiles.-Dryden. A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a 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. BAIT. M. F. Tupper. AND that same glorious beauty's idle boast, What so strong, But wanting rest will also want of might? The sun, that measures heaven all day long, Spenser. At night doth bait his steeds the ocean waves among. Spenser. Oh, cunning enemy! that to catch a saint, Shakspere. |