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But ah! 't is gone, 't is gone, and never

Mine such waking bliss can be ;
Oh! I would sleep, would sleep for ever,

Could I thus but dream of thee !


Where his thoughts on the pinions of fancy shall roam,
And in slumber revisit his love and his home-
When the eyes of affection with tenderness gleam ;-
Oh! who would awake from so blissful a dream ?


When sleep's calm wing is on my brow,

And dreams of peace my spirit lull,
Before me, like a misty star,
That form floats dim and beautiful.

Strange is the power of dreams! who has not felt,
When in the morning light such visions melt,
How the veil'd soul, tho' struggling to be free,
Ruld by that deep, unfathom’d mystery,
Wakes, haunted by the thoughts of good or ill,
Whose shading influence pursues us still?

MRS. NORTON'S Drearize






A surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings.

Oh, that men should put an enemy in
Their mouths, to steal away their brains ! that we
Should, with joy, pleasance, revel and applause,
Transforin ourselves to beasts !

They were red-hot with drinking ;
So full of valour, that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces; beat the ground
For kissing of their feet.

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty ;
For, in my youth, I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood;
Nor did I, with unbashful forehead, woo
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty but kindly.

In what thou eat'st and drinkest seek from thence
Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight;
So thou may'st live till, like ripe fruit, thou drop
Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease
Gather’d, not harshly pluck’d, for death mature.

For swinish gluttony
Ne'er looks to heaven amidst her gorgeous feast,
But with besotted, base ingratitude
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder

Milton's comune



If all the world
Should, in a pet of Temperance, feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze,
Th' All-Giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd,
Not half his riches known, and yet despis'd ;
And we should serve him as a grudging master,
And a penurious niggard of his wealth.

Milton's Comus.
Nature, good cateress,
Means her provision only to the good,
That live according to her sober laws,
And holy dictates of spare Temperance.

Milton's Comus.

The modest maid But coyly sips, and blushing drinks, abash’d.

SOMERVILE He, who the rules of temperance neglects, From a good cause may produce vile effects.

TUKE. If men would shun swoln fortune's ruinous blasts, Let them use temperance : nothing violent lasts.

W. STRACHEY. The joy which wine can give, like smoky fires, Obscures their sight, whose fancy it inspires.

AARON Hill 'Tis to thy rules, 0 Temperance ! that we owe All pleasures that from health and strength can flow.

Mary ChanDLER. Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's humblest roots, And scarce the summer's luxury of fruits, His short repast in humbleness supply With all a hermit's boord would scarce deny; But, while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, His mind seems nourish’d by that abstinence.

Byron's Corsaiz.



Man, being reasonable, must get drunk:

The best of life is but intoxication ;
Glory, the grape, love, gold,- in these are sunk
The hopes of all men, and of every nation.

Byron's Don Juien
He spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night.

BYRON's Childe Harold.
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires
The young, makes Weariness forget his toil,
And Fear her danger; opens a new world,
When this, the present, palls.

Byron's Sardanapalus.
Fill the bright goblet, spread the festive board,

Summon the gay, the noble, and the fair ;
Thro' the loud hall, in joyous concert pour’d,
Let mirth and music sound the dirge of Care.

The gen'rous wine brings joy divine,

And beauty charms our soul;
I, while on earth, will still with mirth,
Drink — beauty and the bowl!

E. McKey.
What cannot wine perform? It brings to light
The secret soul; it bids the coward fight ;
Gives being to our hopes, and from our hearts
Drives out dull sorrow, and inspires new arts ;
Even in th’ oppressive grasp of poverty,
It can enlarge, and bid the soul be free.

FRANCIS' Horuce.
Could ev'ry drunkard, ere he sits to dine,
Feel in his head the dizzy fumes of wine,
No more would Bacchus chain the willing soul,
But loathing horror shun the poison'd bowl.

MERIVALE's Clearchus.



Thou sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl!

Though lips of bards thy brim may press,
And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll,
And song and dance thy power

I will not touch thec; for there clings
A scorpion to thy side that stings.

Joux PIERPONT Inspiring John Barleycorn, What dangers dost thou make us scorn!

'Tis when the fancy-stirring bowl

Doth wake its world of pleasure, That glowing fancies gild my soul,

And life's an endless treasure.

Ah! Brandy, Brandy! bane of life,
Spring of tumult, source of strife,
Could I but half thy curses tell,
The wise would wish thee safe in hell!

Blame not the bowl-the fruitful bowl,

Whence wit and mirth and music spring,
And amber drops Elysian roll,
To bathe young Love's delighted wing.




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