Chapter 6

God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed: An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. _Romeo and Juliet, Act_ i. _So_. 3. SHAKESPEARE.

Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giving: Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting! _The Gypsy's Malison_. C. LAMB.

BATTLE.

Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darkened air.

Glittering lances are the loom, Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randoer's bane. _The Fatal Sisters_. T. GRAY.

Wheel the wild dance, While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud; And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. _The Dance of Death_. SIR W. SCOTT.

He made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, And that it was great pity, so it was, That villanous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed. _K. Henry IV., Pt. I. Act i. Sc.3_ SHAKESPEARE.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery. Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share; The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. _Childe Harold, Canto I_. LORD BYRON.

From the glittering staff unfurled Th' imperial ensign, which, full high advanced, Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind, With gems and golden lustre rich imblazed, Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds: At which the universal host upsent A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. _Paradise Lost, Bk. I_. MILTON.

When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war. _Alexander the Great, Act iv. Sc. 2_. N. LEE.

That voice ... heard so oft In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge Of battle when it raged. _Paradise Lost, Bk. 1_. MILTON.

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood; Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! _King Richard III., Act v. Sc. 8_. SHAKESPEARE.

We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns, And pass them current too. God's me, my horse! _King Henry IV., Pt. I. Act ii. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.

Never be it said That Fate itself could awe the soul of Richard. Hence, babbling dreams; you threaten here in vain; Conscience, avaunt, Richard's himself again! Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds. To horse! away! My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray. _Shakespeare's Richard III. (Altered), Act. v. Sc. 3_. C. GIBBER.

BEAUTY.

Is she not passing fair? _Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act iv. Sc. 4_. SHAKESPEARE.

And she is fair, and fairer than that word. _Merchant of Venice, Act i. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. _As You Like It, Act i. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.

Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet. _Cymon and Iphigenia_. J. DRYDEN.

Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear. _Romeo and Juliet, Act i. Sc. 5_. SHAKESPEARE.

A rosebud set with little wilful thorns. And sweet as English air could make her, she. _The Princess_. A. TENNYSON.

Thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty. _Childe Harold, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.

Yet I'll not shed her blood; Nor soar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster. _Othello, Act v. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

No longer shall thy bodice, aptly laced. From thy full bosom to thy slender waist, That air and harmony of shape express, Fine by degrees, and beautifully less. _Henry and Emma_. M. PRIOR.

The beautiful are never desolate; But some one always loves them--God or man. If man abandons, God himself takes them. _Festus: Sc. Water and Wood_. P.J. BAILEY.

There's nothing that allays an angry mind So soon as a sweet beauty. _The Elder Brother, Act iii. Sc. 5_. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The beautiful seems right By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong Because of weakness. _Aurora Leigh_. E.B. BROWNING.

How near to good is what is fair, Which we no sooner see, But with the lines and outward air Our senses taken be. We wish to see it still, and prove What ways we may deserve; We court, we praise, we more than love, We are not grieved to serve. _Love Freed from Ignorance and Folly_. B. JONSON.

There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't. _Tempest, Act i. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. And most divinely fair. _A Dream of Fair Women_. A. TENNYSON.

Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be hoarded. But must be current, and the good thereof Consists in mutual and partaken bliss. Unsavory in th' enjoyment of itself: If you let slip time, like a neglected rose, It withers on the stalk with languished head. _Comus_. MILTON.

Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self. _The Seasons: Autumn_. J. THOMSON.

In beauty, faults conspicuous grow; The smallest speck is seen on snow. _Fables: Peacock, Turkey, and Goose_. J. GAY.

The maid who modestly conceals Her beauties, while she hides, reveals: Gives but a glimpse, and fancy draws Whate'er the Grecian Venus was. _The Spider and the Bee_. E. MOORE.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud; A brittle glass that 's broken presently; A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour. _The Passionate Pilgrim_. SHAKESPEARE.

BELL.

Tuned be its metal mouth alone To things eternal and sublime. And as the swift-winged hours speed on May it record the flight of time! _Song of the Bell_. F. SCHILLER. _Trans_. E.A. BOWRING.

The bells themselves are the best of preachers, Their brazen lips are learnèd teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon and now a prayer. _Christus: The Golden Legend, Pt. III_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

And the Sabbath bell, That over wood and wild and mountain dell Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy With sounds most musical, most melancholy. _Human Life_. S. ROGERS.

Sweet Sunday bells! your measured sound Enhances the repose profound Of all these golden fields around, And range of mountain, sunshine-drowned. _Sunday Bells_. W. ALLINGHAM.

Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh. _Hamlet, Act_ iii. _Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE.

Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and Clashing, clanging to the pavement Hurl them from their windy tower! _Christus: The Golden Legend. Prologue_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, Remembered tolling a departing friend. _K. Henry IV., Pt. II. Act_ i. _Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE.

BIBLE.

My Book and Heart Must never part. _New England Primer_.

Within that awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries!

* * * * *

And better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. _The Monastery_. SIR W. SCOTT.

God, in the gospel of his Son, Makes his eternal counsels known; 'Tis here his richest mercy shines, And truth is drawn in fairest lines. _The Glory of the Scriptures_. B. BEDDOME.

Holy Bible, book divine, Precious treasure, thou art mine; Mine to tell me whence I came, Mine to teach me what I am.

Mine to chide me when I rove, Mine to show a Saviour's love; Mine art thou to guide my feet, Mine to judge, condemn, acquit. _Holy Bible, Book Divine_. J. BURTON.

The heavens declare thy glory, Lord; In every star thy wisdom shines; But when our eyes behold thy word, We read thy name in fairer lines. _God's Word and Works_. DR. I. WATTS.

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true. _Truth_. W. COWPER.

A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none. _Olney Hymns_. W. COWPER.

Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse; This book starres lights to eternal blisse. _The Church: The Holy Scriptures, Pt. II_. G. HERBERT.

BIRDS.

Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! _Tales of a Wayside Inn: The Poet's Tale_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau If birds confabulate or no. 'T is clear that they were always able To hold discourse--at least in fable. _Pairing Time Anticipated_. W. COWPER.

The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake; The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove: Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Poured out profusely, silent. Joined to these, Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole. _The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away? _Flight of Birds_. E.C. STEDMAN.

The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight. _Spring_. O.W. HOLMES.

One day in the bluest of summer weather, Sketching under a whispering oak, I heard five bobolinks laughing together, Over some ornithological joke. _Bird Language_. C.P. CRANCH.

Sing away, ay, sing away, Merry little bird. Always gayest of the gay, Though a woodland roundelay You ne'er sung nor heard; Though your life from youth to age Passes in a narrow cage. _The Canary in his Cage_. D.M. MULOCK CRAIK.

The cook, that is the trumpet to the morn. Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat A wake the god of day. _Hamlet. Act_ i. _Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE.

Bird of the broad and sweeping wing, Thy home is high in heaven, Where wide the storms their banners fling. And the tempest clouds are driven. _To the Eagle_. J.G. PERCIVAL.

Where, the hawk, High in the beetling cliff, his aery builds. _The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

And the, humming-bird that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle horns They mesmerized and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away And left him hanging there. _The South Wind and the Sun_. J.W. RILEY.

"Most musical, most melancholy" bird! A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy. _The Nightingale_. S.T. COLERIDGE.

Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. _Evangeline, Pt. II_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed. _The Village Curate_. J. HURDIS.

The merry lark he soars on high, No worldly thought o'ertakes him. He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, And the daylight that awakes him. _Song_. H. COLERIDGE.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail? O, 'tis the ravished nightingale-- Jug, jug, jug, jug--tereu--she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? None but the lark so shrill and clear, Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark! but what a pretty note, Poor Robin-redbreast tunes his throat; Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing "Cuckoo!" to welcome in the spring. _Alexander and Campaspe, Act v. Sc. 1_. JOHN LYLY.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,

* * * * *

Portend success in love. _To the Nightingale_. MILTON.

O honey-throated warbler of the grove! That in the glooming woodland art so proud Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud, Thou dost not own a note we do not love. _To the Nightingale_. C.T. TURNER.

Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pour The mazy-running soul of melody Into my varied verse. _The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended; and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection. _Merchant of Venice, Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed. _Macbeth, Act_ ii. _Sc_. 4. SHAKESPEARE.

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. _The White Devil, Act_ v. _Sc. 2_. J. WEBSTER.

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day! _Poor Robin_. W. WORDSWORTH.

The swallow twitters about the eaves; Blithely she sings, and sweet and clear; Around her climb the woodbine leaves In a golden atmosphere. _The Swallow_ C. THAXTER.

The stately-sailing swan Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale; And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet Rears forward fierce, and guards his osier isle, Protective of his young. _The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.

BLESSING.

Blessings star forth forever; but a curse Is like a cloud--it passes. _Festus: Sc. Hades_. P.J. BAILEY.

To heal divisions, to relieve the oppressed, In virtue rich; in blessing others, blessed. _Odyssey, Bk. VII_. HOMER. _Trans. of_ POPE.

Like birds, whose beauties languish half concealed, Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded, shine with azure, green, and gold; How blessings brighten as they take their flight! _Night Thoughts, Night II_. DR. E. YOUNG.

In the nine heavens are eight Paradises; Where is the ninth one? In the human breast. Only the blessèd dwell in the Paradises, But blessedness dwells in the human breast. _Oriental Poetry: The Ninth Paradise_. W.R. ALGER.

BLUSH.

Who has not seen that feeling born of flame Crimson the cheek at mention of a name? The rapturous touch of some divine surprise Flash deep suffusion of celestial dyes: When hands clasped hands, and lips to lips were pressed And the heart's secret was at once confessed? _The Microcosm: Man_. A. COLES.

By noting of the lady I have marked A thousand blushing apparitions start Into her face; a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness bear away those blushes. _Much Ado About Nothing, Act iv. Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE.

From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks, Ten thousand little loves and graces spring To revel in the roses. _Tamerlane, Act_ i. _Sc_. 1. N. ROWE.

While mantling on the maiden's cheek, Young roses kindled into thought. _Evenings in Greece: Evening II. Song_. T. MOORE.

The rising blushes, which her cheek o'erspread, Are opening roses in the lily's bed. _Dione, Act_ ii. _Sc_. 3. J. GAY.

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, Half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, And flare up bodily, wings and all. _Aurora Leigh_. E.B. BROWNING.

The man that blushes is not quite a brute. _Night Thoughts, Night VII_. DR. E. YOUNG.

BOATING.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time, Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at Saint Ann's our parting hymn; Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past! _A Canadian Boat Song_. T. MOORE.

And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. _Bermudas_. A. MARVELL.

Oh, swiftly glides the bonnie boat, Just parted from the shore, And to the fisher's chorus-note, Soft moves the dipping oar! _Oh, Swiftly glides the Bonnie Boat_. J. BAILLIE.

Learn of the little nautilus to sail, Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. _Essay on Man, Epistle III_. A. POPE.

On the great streams the ships may go About men's business to and fro. But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep On crystal waters ankle-deep: I, whose diminutive design, Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine, Is fashioned on so frail a mould, A hand may launch, a hand withhold: I, rather, with the leaping trout Wind, among lilies, in and out; I, the unnamed, inviolate. Green, rustic rivers navigate. _The Canoe Speaks_. R.L. STEVENSON.

Row us forth! Unfurl thy sail! What care we for tempest blowing? Let us kiss the blustering gale! Let us breast the waters flowing! Though the North rush cold and loud, Love shall warm and make us merry; Though the waves all weave a shroud, We will dare the Humber ferry! _The Humber Ferry_. B.W. PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

BOOKS.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good; Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. _Personal Talk_. W. WORDSWORTH.

Silent companions of the lonely hour, Friends, who can alter or forsake. Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take. _To My Books_. MRS. C. NORTON.

Some books are drenched sands, On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps, Like a wrecked argosy. _A Life Drama_. ALEX. SMITH.

Worthy books Are not companions--they are solitudes: We lose ourselves in them and all our cares. _Festus: Sc. A Village Feast. Evening_. P.J. BAILEY.

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't. _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_. LORD BYRON.

Golden volumes! richest treasures, Objects of delicious pleasures! You my eyes rejoicing please, You my hands in rapture seize! Brilliant wits and musing sages, Lights who beamed through many ages! Left to your conscious leaves their story, And dared to trust you with their glory; And now their hope of fame achieved, Dear volumes! you have not deceived! _Curiosities of Literature. Libraries_. I. DISRAELI.

That place that does contain My books, the best companions, is to me A glorious court, where hourly I converse With the old sages and philosophers. _The Elder Brother, Act_ i. _Sc_. 2. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

BORROWING.

Who goeth a-borrowing, Goeth a-sorrowing. _Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry. June's Abstract_. T. TUSSER.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. _Hamlet, Act_ i. _Sc_. 3. SHAKESPEARE.

It is a very good world to live in, To lend, or to spend, or to give in; But to beg or to borrow, or to get a man's own, It is the very worst world that ever was known. _Attributed to_ EARL OF ROCHESTER.

BOY.

O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure! _King John, Act_ iii. _Sc_. 4. SHAKESPEARE.

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, And mischief-making monkey from his birth. _Don Juan, Canto I_. LORD BYRON.

A little bench of heedless bishops here, And there a chancellor in embryo. _The Schoolmistress_. W. SHENSTONE.

Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face; These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his: This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in Geffrey: and the hand of time Shall draw this brief unto as large a volume. _King John, Act ii. Sc 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

O, 'tis a parlous boy; Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable; He is all the mother's from the top to toe. _Richard III., Act iii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy mother. _Love's Cure, Act ii. Sc. 2_. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

But strive still to be a man before your mother. _Motto of No. III. Connoisseur_. W. COWPER.

CARE.

When one is past, another care we have; Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave. _Sorrows Succeed_. R. HERRICK.

Old Care has a mortgage on every estate, And that's what you pay for the wealth that you get. _Gifts of the Gods_. J.G. SAXE.

O polished perturbation! golden care! That keepest the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night! _K. Henry IV., Pt. II. Act iv. Sc. 5_. SHAKESPEARE.

Let one unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light,--for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care, That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race. _The Goblet of Life_. H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Let the world slide, let the world go: A fig for care, and a fig for woe! If I can't pay, why I can owe, And death makes equal the high and low. _Be Merry Friends_. J. HEYWOOD.

Begone, dull Care, I prithee begone from me; Begone, dull Care, thou and I shall never agree. _Begone, Old Care_. PLAYFORD'S _Musical Companion_.

CHANCE.

That power Which erring men call Chance. _Comus_. MILTON.

Chance will not do the work--Chance sends the breeze; But if the pilot slumber at the helm, The very wind that wafts us towards the port May dash us on the shelves.--The steersman's part is vigilance, Blow it or rough or smooth. _Fortunes of Nigel_. SIR w. SCOTT.

I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance. _Antony and Cleopatra, Act_ v. _Sc_. 2. SHAKESPEARE.

And grasps the skirts of happy chance. And breasts the blows of circumstance. _In Memoriam, LXIII_. A. TENNYSON.

You'll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance, Each man, unknowing, great, Should frame life so that at some future hour Fact and his dreamings meet. _To His Orphan Grandchildren_. V. HUGO.

CHANGE.

Weep not that the world changes--did it keep A stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep. _Mutation_. W.C. BRYANT.

Manners with fortunes, humors turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times. _Moral Essays, Epistle I. Pt. II_. A. POPE.

As hope and fear alternate chase Our course through life's uncertain race. _Rokeby, Canto VI_. SIR W. SCOTT.

This world is not for aye, nor 't is not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change. _Hamlet, Act_ iii. _Sc_. 2. SHAKESPEARE.

Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late. _Faërie Queene, Bk. III. Canto IX_. E. SPENSER.