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DAY - MORNING - NIGHT, &c.

The night
Shows stars and women in a better light.

BYRON'S Don Juan
Blest power of sunshine! genial day!
What balm, what life is in thy ray !
To feel thee is such real bliss,
That, had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet-
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb!

MOORE's Lalla Rookh.
It was an evening bright and still

As ever blush'd on wave or bower,
Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill
Could happen in so sweet an hour.

Moore's Loves of the Angels.
Soft as a bride, the rosy dawn

From dewy sleep doth rise,
And, bath'd in blushes, hath withdrawn

The mantle from her eyes ;
And, with her orbs dissolv'd in dew,
Bends like an angel softly through
The blue-pavilion'd skies.

Mrs. AMELIA B. WELBY.
O Twilight! spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments—melting heaven to earth-
Leaving on crazgy hills and running streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams.

Mrs. Norton's Dream.
How calmly sinks the setting sun

Yet twilight lingers still ;
And, beautiful as dream of heaven,
It slumbers on the hill.

G. D. PRENTICI

DEATH - GRAVE.

'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er
The still and pulseless world.

G, D. PRENTICE Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fireside Dance upon the parlour wall.

H. W. LONGFELLOW Night's starry host gather'd in brightness high, And not a cloud darken’d the shining sky; The moon rode by, and all her glittering band Bath'd in a flood of light the smiling land.

MRS. C. H. W. ESLING. The sun now rests upon the mountain tops.

CARLOS Wilcox. The hour of melancholy, mirth, and love.

MRS. BROOKS. The busy world was still, the solemn moon Smild forth her silvery beauty; and the stars, Like living diamonds in a sea of glass, Danc'd in the sapphire canopy of heaven.

P. B. ELDER The king of day had dipp'd his weary head Within old father Ocean's billowy bed, And “ twilight grey” had spread its dusky veil O’er all terrestrial objects, hill and dale.

J. T. WATSON

DEATH - GRAVE

Death is a fearful thing :
The wearied and most loathed earthly life,
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a Paradise
To what we fear of death!

SHAKSPEARE 176

DEATH - GRAVE.

Is it not better to die willingly,
Than linger till the glass be all outrun ?

SPENSER
Imperious Cæsar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole, to keep the wind away:
0! that the earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall, to expel the Winter's ilaw !

SHAKSPEARE
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

SHAKSPEARE
Can storied urn, or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Gray's Elegy.

Death, grim death
Will fold me in his leaden arms, and press
Me close to his cold, clayey breast.

CONGREVE
The sceptred king, the burthen'd slave,

The humble and the haughty, die ;
The rich, the poor, the base, the brave,

In dust, without distinction, lie.

Death is the crown of life:
Were death denied, poor man would live in vain.
Death wounds to cure; we fall, we rise, we reign;
Spring from our fetters, fasten to the skies,
Where blooming Eden withers from our sight.
This king of terrors is the prince of peace.

Young's Night Though!3.
The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave,
The deep, damp vault, the darkness, and the worm!

Young's Night Thoughts

DEATH-GRAVE.

177

A death-bed's a detector of the heart :
Here tired dissimulation drops her mask,
Through life's grimace that mistress of the scene;
Here real and apparent are the same.

Young's Night Thoughts
O death, all eloquent ! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 't is man we love.'

Pope's Eloisa Death, when unmask’d, shows us a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance.

GOLDSMITH The prince, who kept the world in awe, The judge, whose dictate fix'd the law, The rich, the

poor,

the

great, the small, Are levell’d: death confounds them all.

Gay's Fables. There shall the yew her sable branches spread, And mournful cypress rear her fringed head ; From thence shall thyme and myrtle send perfume, And laurel evergreen o'ershade the tomb.

Gay's Dione
Leaves have their times to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set -- but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!

Mrs. HEMANS
Let him who crawls, enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away,
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ;-
Ours the fresh turf, and not the fev'rish bed ;
While, gasp by gasp, he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang—one bound_escapes control.

Byron's Corsair. How peaceful and how powerful is the grave !

BYRON.

178

DEATH-GRAVE.

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Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That lost, with their banners, at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest, when Autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay wither'd and strown!

BYRON
And dull the film along his dim eye grew.

Byron's Ları
Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall;
The dome of thought-the palace of the soul.

BYR)N's Childe Harold.
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet.

Byron's Don Juan,
At times, botl. wish'd for and implor'd,
At times sought with self-pointed sword,
And welcome in no shape.

Byron's Mazeppa.
What shall he be ere night?-Perchance a thing
O’er which the raven flaps his funeral wing!

Byron's Corsair
Oh God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing !

Byron's Prisoner of Chillon.
How sweetly could I lay my head

Within the cold grave's siient breast,
Where sorrow's tears no more are shed,
No more the ills of life molest!

MOORE.
O, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate,
In the wide world, without that only tie,
For which it wish'd to live, or fear’d to die!

Moore's Lalla Rookh.
Like one who draws the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

W. C. BRYANT

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