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ESTABLISHED violence and lawless might,
Avowed and hallowed by the name of right.

Rowe, from Lucan.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee,
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see,
All discord, harmony not understood,
All partial evil, universal good;
And, spite of pride—in erring reason's spite,
One thing is clear—whatever is, is right. Pope.

The rights of women,--what are they?
The right to labour and to pray;
The right to watch whilst others sleep;
The right o'er others' woes to weep;
The right to succour in reverse;
The right to bless whilst others curse;
The right to love whom others scorn;
The right to comfort all that mourn;
The right to shed new joy on earth;
The right to feel the soul's high worth;
The right to lead the soul to God
Along the path her Saviour trod-
The path of meekness and of love,
The path of faith that leads above,
The path of patience and of wrong,
The path in which the weak grow strong.
Such woman's rights and God will bless
And crown their champion with success. Mrs.Little.

ATHENS did righteously decide
When Phocian and when Socrates were tried;
As righteously they did their dooms repent,
Still they were wise whatever way they went.

The righteous die: their deeds of love
Track their bright course to realms above;
Earth's flowers in fadeless glory shine,
And angel-hands the wreath entwine.-W. J. Brock.

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He is not dead, that sometime had a fall,
The sun returns, that hid was under cloud,
And when fortune hath spit out all her gall,
I trust, good luck to me shall be allowed:
For I have seen a ship in haven fall,
After that storm hath broke both mast and shroud:

The willow eke, that stoopeth with the wind,
Doth rise again, and greater wood doth bind.

Sir Thos. Wyatt.
If on the sudden he begin to rise,
No man that lives can count his enemies.

Middleton. Who would rely upon the faith of nations!

They leave you thankless when their work is done; The people, like the women, pour libations, Only in honour of the rising sun.

Shelley, from Goethe.

BASE rivals, who true wit and merit hate,
Caballing still against it with the great,
Maliciously aspire to gain renown,
By standing up, and pulling others down.


Of all the torments, all the cares,

With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst.
By partners in each other kind,

Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find

Companions of our woe.
How great soe'er your rigours are,

With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,

But not another's hope.

Walsh. 552


SEE the rivers—how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep.


So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.—Longfellow.

River! O, river! thou roamest free,
From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea!
Free thyself, but with silver chain,
Linking each charm of land and main.
River! 0, river! upon thy tide
Full many a freighted bark doth ride;
Would that thou thus could'st bear away
The thoughts that burden my weary day!

C. F. Hoffman.


WHAT resounds
Of fable or romance of Uther's son.


Romance, who loves to nod and sing
With drowsy head, and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy brake.

Edgar A. Poe. The gorgeous pageantry of times gone by,

The tilt, the tournament, the vaulted hall, Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye,

And fancy's bright and gay creation-all Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance.

S. L. Fairfield.



So loving to my mother,
That he might not, beteem the winds of heaven,
Visit her face too roughly.


Most by the numbers judge a poet's song,
And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong.

Pope. A surly boatman, rough as seas and wind. Prior.


Rumour is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it.

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,
The numbers of the feared.

Shakspere. Rumour is painted full of tongues I wis, And they do know her well who thus depict her. She is the sister unto babbling echo, Their common parentage is empty sound; Therefore give ear not unto flying rumour.

Old Play. Rumour close by, as she plucked a reed

From a babbling brook, detained the throng; With a hundred tongues, that never agreed,

She gave to the winds a mocking song.
The crowd with delight its echoes caught,

And closer around her yet they drew;
So wond'rous and wild the lore she taught,
They listened entranced the long day through.

Laman Blanchard.
Curse the tongue
Whence slanderous rumour, like the adder's drop,
Distils her venom, withering friendship’s faith,
Turning love's favour.


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RUIN. I do love those ancient ruins: We never tread upon them, but we set Our foot upon some rev’rend history; And questionless, here in this open court, Which now lies naked to the injuries Of stormy weather, some lie interr’d, who Lov'd the church so well, and gave so largely to't, They thought it should have canopied their bones Till doomsday: but all things have their end; Churches and cities, which have diseases like to men, Must have like death that we have.


What strange ruins Since first we went to school, may we perceive Walking in Thebes? Scars and bare weeds, The gain o'th' martialist, who did propound To his bold ends, honour, and golden ingots; Which, though he won, he had not. Fletcher.


HER fallow leas
The darnel hemlock, and rank fumitory
Doth rest upon, while that the culter rusts
That shall deracinate such savagery.—Shakspere.

Idler, why lie down to die?

Better rub than rust;
Hark the lark sings in the sky,

Die, when die thou must;
Day is waking, leaves are shaking,

Better rub than rust.
He who will not work, shall want;

Nought for nought is just;
Won't do, must do, when he can't:

Better rub than rust;
Bees are flying, sloth is dying!
Better rub than rust. ·

Ebenezer Elliott.

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