"Tis strange how many unimagin'd charges
Can swarm upon a man, when once the lid
Of the Pandora box of contumely
Is open'd o'er his head.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like a toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
I am not now in fortune's power;
He that is down can sink no lower.
Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction;
As oft the cloud that wraps the present hour
Serves but to lighten all our future days.
I will bear it
With all the tender sufferance of a friend,
As calmly as the wounded patient bears
The artist's hand that ministers his cure.
Deserted in his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed.
Affliction is the good man's shining scene;
Prosperity conceals his brightest ray;
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue;
Where patience, honour, sweet humanity,
Calm fortitude, take root and strongly flourish.
Misfortune does not always wait on vice;
Nor is success the constant guest of virtue,
I pray thee, deal with men in misery,
Like one who may himself be miserable.
In this wild world the fondest and the best
Are the most tried, most troubled and distress'd.
Aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But, crush'd or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
For every want, that stimulates the breast,
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest.
Each breast, however fortified,
By courage, apathy, or pride,
Has still one secret path for thee,
Man's subtle foe-Adversity.
The good are better made by ill,
As odours crush'd are better still.
Though losses and crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.
MRS. HOLFORD'S Margaret of Anjou.
The brave unfortunates are our best acquaintance;
They show us virtue may be much distress'd,
And give us their example how to suffer.
"T was thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nurs❜d the pinion that impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
BYRON'S English Bards, &
I have not quail'd to danger's brow
When high and happy-need I now?
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs on the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so,”
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who 'stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last;
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst “bonos mores,”
With a long memorandum of old stories.
The rugged metal of the mine
Must burn before its surface shine;
But, plung'd within the furnace flame,
It bends and melts-tho' still the same.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deepest on the brow?
To view each loved one blighted from life's page,
And be alone on earth-as I am now.
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy,
Have I not seen what human things could do?
From the loud roar of foaming calumny,
To the small whisper of the as paltry few
And subtle venom of the reptile crew?
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, tho' thousand pilgrims fill the way:
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine.
The blackest ink of fate was sure my lot,
And when fate writ my name, it made a blot.
Alone she sate-alone!-that worn-out word,
So idly spoken and so coldly heard;
Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known,
Of hope laid waste, knells in that word-alone!
I may not weep-I cannot sigh,
A weight is pressing on my breast;
A breath breathes on me witheringly,
My tears are dry, my sighs supprest!
ADVICE.
Let me entreat
You to unfold the anguish of your heart;
Mishaps are master'd by advice discreet,
And counsel mitigates the greatest smart.
SPENSER'S Fairy Queen.
Direct not him whose way himself will choose;
"Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
SHAKSPEARE
I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ear as profitless
As water in a sieve.
I shall the effect of this good lesson keep,
As watchman to my heart.
Men counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air, and agony with words
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
SHAKSPEARE.
AFFECTION.
There is in life no blessing like affection;
It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues,
And bringeth down to earth its native heaven:—
Life has naught else that may supply its place.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart;
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought.
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.
'T were sweet to kiss thy tears away,
If tears those eyes must know;
But sweeter still to hear thee say,
Thou never hadst them flow.
Oh, sweet are the tones of affection sincere,
When they come from the depth of the heart;
And sweet are the words that banish each care,
And bid sorrow for ever depart!
How cling we to a thing our hearts have nursed!
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