Chapter 21

Absence of occupation is not rest, A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed. _Retirement_. W. COWPER.

RETRIBUTION.

The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted--they have torn me, and I bleed; I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. _Childe Harold, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.

We but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice To our own lips. _Macbeth, Act i. Sc. 7_. SHAKESPEARE. So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_. LORD BYRON.

Remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend. _Essays on Translated Verse_. W. DILLON.

REVENGE.

Souls made of fire and children of the sun, With whom Revenge is virtue. _The Revenge, Act V_. DR. E. YOUNG

And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong. _Mazeppa_. LORD BYRON

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. _Titus Andronicus, Act ii. Sc_. 3. SHAKESPEARE

If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. _Merchant of Venice, Act i. Sc_. 3. SHAKESPEARE.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. _Merchant of Venice, Act iii. Sc_.. 1. SHAKESPEARE.

Vengeance to God alone belongs; But when I think on all my wrongs, My blood is liquid flame. _Marmion, Canto VI_. SIR W. SCOTT.

Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils. _Paradise Lost, Bk. IX_. MILTON.

ROD, THE.

I pray ye, flog them upon all occasions. It mends their morals, never mind the pain. _Don Juan, Canto II_. LORD BYRON.

Love is a boy by poets styled; Then spare the rod and spoil the child. _Hudibras, Pt. II. Canto I_. S. BUTLER.

Whipping, that's virtue's governess, Tutoress of arts and sciences; That mends the gross mistakes of nature, And puts new life into dull matter; That lays foundation for renown, And all the honors of the gown. _Hudibras, Pt. II. Canto I_. S. BUTLER.

ROMANCE.

Parent of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious queen of childish joys, Who lead'st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls and boys. _To Romance_. LORD BYRON.

He loved the twilight that surrounds The border-land of old romance; Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, And mighty warriors sweep along, Magnified by the purple mist, The dusk of centuries and of song. _Tales of a Wayside Inn: Prelude_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. _A Narrow Girdle of Bough Stones_. W. WORDSWORTH.

Romances paint at full length people's wooings, But only give a bust of marriages: For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss. Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life? _Don Juan, Canto III_. LORD BYRON.

ROYALTY.

When beggars die there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. _Julius Cæsar, Act ii. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

What infinite heart's ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy? And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? _King Henry V., Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed king. _King Richard II., Act iii. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

There's such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will. _Hamlet, Act iv. Sc. 5_. SHAKESPEARE.

Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength. _King Richard III., Act v. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.

RURAL LIFE.

Far from gay cities and the ways of men. _Odyssey, Bk. XIV_. HOMER. _Trans. of_ POPE.

But on and up, where Nature's heart Beats strong amid the hills. _Tragedy of the Lac de Gaube_. R.M. MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON.

They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought? _The Task, Bk. III_. W. COWPER.

God made the country, and man made the town; What wonder then, that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threatened in the fields and groves. _The Task, Bk. I.: The Sofa_. W. COWPER.

Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town. _Summer_. C.G. ROSSETTI.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature. _The Task, Bk. I_. W. COWPER.

At eve the ploughman leaves the task of day And, trudging homeward, whistles on the way: And the big-uddered cows with patience stand, And wait the strokings of the damsel's hand. _Rural Sport_. J. GAY.

Rustic mirth goes round; The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart, Easily pleased; the long loud laugh sincere; The kiss snatched hasty from the sidelong maid, On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep: The leap, the slap, the haul; and, shook to notes Of native music, the respondent dance. Thus jocund fleets with them the winter night. _The Seasons: Winter_. J. THOMSON.

As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die! _The Old Cumberland Beggar_. W. WORDSWORTH.

O for a seat in some poetic nook, Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook. _Politics and Poetics_. L. HUNT.

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny: You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace. _The Castle of Indolence, Canto II_. J. THOMSON.

And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. _As You Like It, Act ii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

SABBATH.

The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion. _The Sabbath Bells_. C. LAMB.

The clinkum-clank o' Sabbath bells Noo to the hoastin' rookery swells, Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells, Sounds far an' near, An' through the simmer kintry tells Its tale o' cheer.

An' noo, to that melodious play, A' deidly awn the quiet sway-- A' ken their solemn holiday, Bestial an' human, The singin' lintie on the brae, The restin' plou'man. _A Lowden Sabbath Morn_. R.L. STEVENSON.

Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss: Heaven once a week: The next world's gladness prepossest in this; A day to seek; Eternity in time. _Sundays_. H. VAUGHAN.

As palmers went to hail the nichèd seat At desert well, where they put off the shoon And robe of travel, so I, a pilgrim as they, Tired with my six-days' track, would turn aside Out of the scorch and glare into the shade Of Sunday-stillness. _The Resting Place_. M.J. PRESTON.

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! Thee I hail, the poor man's day. _The Sabbath_. J. GRAHAME.

Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well be sure, He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor! _Urania_.. O.W. HOLMES.

SATIRE.

Prepare for rhyme--I'll publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_. LORD BYRON.

Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen. _To the Imitator of the first Satire of Horace. Bk. II_. LADY M.W. MONTAGU.

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck and tilt at all I meet. _Second Book of Horace_. A. POPE.

Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel, Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? _Satires: Prologue_. A. POPE.

SCANDAL.

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike. _Satires: Prologue_. A. POPE.

And there's a lust in man no charm can tame Of loudly publishing our neighbor's shame; On eagles' wings immortal scandals fly, While virtuous actions are but born and die. _Satire IX_. JUVENAL. _Trans. of_ G. HARVEY.

There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools. If true, a woful likeness; and, if lies, "Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise." _Imitations of Horace, Epistle I. Bk. II_. A. POPE.

A third interprets motions, looks and eyes; At every word a reputation dies. Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. _Rape of the Lock, Canto III_. A. POPE.

Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe. _The Satires: Prologue_. A. POPE.

SCHOOL.

The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up. _The Grave_. R. BLAIR.

I do present you with a man of mine, Cunning in music and the mathematics, To instruct her fully in those sciences. _Taming of the Shrew, Act ii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house, Fit to instruct her youth.... ... for, to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing up. _Taming of The Shrew, Act i. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

Grave is the Master's look: his forehead wears Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares: Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, His worst of all whose kingdom is a school. Supreme he sits; before the awful frown That binds his brows the boldest eye goes down; Not more submissive Israel heard and saw At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. _The School-Boy_. O.W. HOLMES.

Besides they always smell of bread and butter. _Manfred_. LORD BYRON.

You'd scarce expect one of my age To speak in public on the stage; And if I chance to fall below Demosthenes or Cicero, Don't view me with a critic's eye, But pass my imperfections by. Large streams from little fountains flow, Tall oaks from little acorns grow. _Lines written for a School Declamation_. D. EVERETT.

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy! _Childe Harold, Canto II_. LORD BYRON.

SCIENCE.

While bright-eyed Science watches round. _Ode for Music: Chorus_. T. GRAY.

There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien, Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,

* * * * *

O Star-eyed Science! hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair? _Pleasures of Hope_. T. CAMPBELL.

One science only will one genius fit, So vast is art, so narrow human wit. _Essay on Criticism, Pt. I_. A. POPE.

By the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. _The Hermit_. J. BEATTIE.

I value science--none can prize it more, It gives ten thousand motives to adore: Be it religious, as it ought to be, The heart it humbles, and it bows the knee. _The Microcosm: Christian Science_. A. COLES.

SCOLD.

Unpack my heart with words, And fall a cursing, like a very drab, A scullion! Fie upon 't! Foh! _Hamlet, Act ii. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

Find all his having and his holding Reduced to eternal noise and scolding,-- The conjugal petard that tears Down all portcullises of ears. _Hudibras_. S. BUTLER.

Abroad too kind, at home 't is steadfast hate, And one eternal tempest of debate. _Love of Fame_. DR. E. YOUNG.

SCULPTURE.

As when, O lady mine, With chiselled touch The stone unhewn and cold Becomes a living mould, The more the marble wastes The more the statue grows. _Sonnet_. M. ANGELO. _Trans. of_ MRS. H. ROSCOE.

Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live. _Michael Angelo_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

So stands the statue that enchants the world, So bending tries to veil the matchless boast, The mingled beauties of exulting Greece. _The Seasons: Summer_. J. THOMSON.

And the cold marble leapt to life a god. _The Belvedere Apollo_. H.H. MILMAN.

Or view the lord of the unerring bow, The god of life, and poesy, and light.-- The sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath just been shot,--the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity.

But in his delicate form--a dream of love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Longed for a deathless lover from above, And maddened in that vision--are exprest All that ideal beauty ever blessed The mind within its most unearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly guest, A ray of immortality, and stood, Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god! _Childe Harold, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.

SEA.

Ocean! great image of eternity, And yet of fleeting time, of change, unrest, Thou vast and wondrous realm of mystery, Of thy great teachings too is man possessed. Type of God's boundless might, the here and there Uniting, thou dost with a righteous fear Man's heart ennoble, awe, and purify, As in thy mighty, multitudinous tones echoes of God roll by. _Nature and Man_. J.W. MILES.

What are the wild waves saying, Sister, the whole day long, That ever amid our playing I hear but their low, lone song? _What are the Wild Waves Saying_? J.B. CARPENTER.

The land is dearer for the sea, The ocean for the shore. _On the Beach_. L. LARCOM.

Distinct as the billows, yet one as the sea. _The Ocean_. J. MONTGOMERY.

There the sea I found Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slumber bound. _The Revolt of Islam, Canto I_. P.B. SHELLEY.

And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly, As if they fain would seek the shore, To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, To be at rest forevermore. _The Sirens_. J.R. LOWELL.

I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. _Don Juan, Canto III_. LORD BYRON.

Watching the waves with all their white crests dancing Come, like thick-plumed squadrons, to the shore Gallantly bounding. _Julian_. SIR A. HUNT.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves behind beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. _Don Juan, Canto III_. LORD BYRON. I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs; he trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him. _The Tempest, Act ii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength. _Luria, Act i_. R. BROWNING.

Thus, I steer my bark, and sail On even keel, with gentle gale. _The Spleen_. M. GREEN.

What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore, Ships have been drowned, where late they danced before. _Safety on the Shore_. R. HERRICK.

Through the black night and driving rain A ship is struggling, all in vain, To live upon the stormy main;-- Miserere Domine! _The Storm_. A.A. PROCTER.

But chief at sea, whose every flexile wave Obeys the blast, the aërial tumult swells. In the dread Ocean undulating wide, Beneath the radiant line that girts the globe. _The Seasons: Summer_. J. THOMSON.

She comes majestic with her swelling sails, The gallant Ship: along her watery way, Homeward she drives before the favoring gales; Now flirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze. _Sonnet XIX_. R. SOUTHEY.

Thou wert before the Continents, before The hollow heavens, which like another sea Encircles them and thee; but whence thou wert, And when thou wast created, is not known, Antiquity was young when thou wast old. _Hymn to the Sea_. R.H. STODDARD.

Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows. Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean. _The Homeric Hexameter_. SCHILLER. _Trans. of_ COLERIDGE.

SEASONS.

SPRING.

So forth issewed the Seasons of the yeare: First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare, In which a thousand birds had built their bowres That sweetly sung to call forth paramours; And in his hand a javelin he did beare, And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) A guilt, engraven morion he did weare: That, as some did him love, so others did him feare. _Faërie Queen, Bk. VII_. E. SPENSER.

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies. _March_. W.C. BRYANT.

March! A cloudy stream is flowing, And a hard, steel blast is blowing; Bitterer now than I remember Ever to have felt or seen, In the depths of drear December, When the white doth hide the green. _March, April, May_. B.W. PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

A gush of bird-song, a patter of dew, A cloud, and a rainbow's warning, Suddenly sunshine and perfect blue-- An April day in the morning. _April_. H.P. SPOFFORD.

O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day! _The Tempest, Act i. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.

When proud-pied April, dressed all in his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything. _Sonnet XCVIII_. SHAKESPEARE.

Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come. _The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

But yesterday all life in bud was hid; But yesterday the grass was gray and sere; To-day the whole world decks itself anew In all the glorious beauty of the year. _Sudden Spring in New England_. C. WELSH.

When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. _The Fountains_. W.C. BRYANT.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea. _Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots_. R. BURNS.

Daughter of heaven and earth, coy Spring, With sudden passion languishing, Teaching barren moors to smile, Painting pictures mile on mile, Holds a cup of cowslip wreaths Whence a smokeless incense breathes. _May Day_. R.W. EMERSON.

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet, And golden locks in breezy play, Half teasing and half tender, to repeat Her song of "May." _May_. S.C. WOOLSEY (_Susan Coolidge_).

For May wol have no slogardie a-night. The seson priketh every gentil herte, And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte. _Canterbury Tales: The Knightes Tale_. CHAUCER.

When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight. _Love's Labor's Lost, Act v. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

SUMMER.

Then came the jolly Sommer, being dight In a thin silken cassock, coloured greene, That was unlynèd all, to be more light, And on his head a garlande well beseene. _Faërie Queene, Bk. VII_. E. SPENSER.

All green and fair the Summer lies, Just budded from the bud of Spring, With tender blue of wistful skies, And winds which softly sing. _Menace_. S.C. WOOLSEY (_Susan Coolidge_).

From brightening fields of ether fair-disclosed, Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes, In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth; He comes, attended by the sultry Hours, And ever-fanning breezes, on his way. _The Seasons: Summer_. J. THOMSON.

From all the misty morning air, there comes a summer sound, A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees, and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo. _A Midsummer Song_. R.W. GILDER.

His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon! _The Bee_. E. DICKINSON.

Still as night Or summer's noontide air. _Paradise Lost, Bk. II_. MILTON.

Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn. _A Christmas Carol_. S.T. COLERIDGE.

The Summer looks out from her brazen tower, Through the flashing bars of July. _A Corymbus for Autumn_. F. THOMPSON.

Dead is the air, and still! the leaves of the locust and walnut Lazily hang from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines Rather on space than the sky,--on a tideless expansion of slumber. _Home Pastorals: August_. B. TAYLOR.

AUTUMN.

Then came the Autumne, all in yellow clad, As though he joyèd in his plenteous store, Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad That he had banished hunger, which to-fore Had by the belly oft him pinchèd sore; Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold With ears of corne of every sort, he bore, And in his hand a sickle he did holde, To reape the ripened fruit the which the earth had yold. _Faërie Queene, Bk. VII_. E. SPENSER.

And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay Gives it a sweet and wholesome odor. _Richard III. (Altered), Act v. Sc. 3_. C. CIBBER.

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreathed with nodding corn. _Brigs of Ayr_. R. BURNS.

Yellow, mellow, ripened days. Sheltered in a golden coating O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating;

* * * * *

Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden Autumn days. _Autumn Days_. W. CARLETON.

While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on. _The Seasons: Autumn_. J. THOMSON.

From gold to gray Our mild sweet day Of Indian summer fades too soon; But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon. _The Eve of Election_. J.G. WHITTIER.

The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade, Where naked branches make a fitful shade, And the lost blooms of Autumn withered lie. _October_. G. ARNOLD.

The dead leaves their rich mosaics Of olive and gold and brown Had laid on the rain-wet pavements, Through all the embowered town. _November_. S. LONGFELLOW.

When shrieked The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades That met above the merry rivulet Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed Like old companions in adversity. _A Winter Piece_. W.C. BRYANT.

Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs--and that is all. _November_. S.C. WOOLSEY (_Susan Coolidge_).

WINTER.

Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frize, Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill; Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze, And the dull drops that from his purple bill As from a limbeck did adown distill; In his right hand a tipped staff he held With which his feeble steps he stayed still, For he was faint with cold and weak with eld, That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld. _Faërie Queene, Bk. VII_. E. SPENSER.

Chaste as the icicle, That's curded by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple: dear Valeria! _Coriolanus, Act v. Sc_. 3. SHAKESPEARE.

Silently as a dream the fabric rose, No sound of hammer or of saw was there. Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjoined. _The Task: Winter Morning Walk_. W. COWPER