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They rove for ever, without error rove
Confusion unconfus'd! nor less admire
This tumult untumultuous; all on wing,
In motion all! yet what profound repose!
What fervid action, yet no noise! as aw'd
To silence by the presence of their Lord.
BROTHERS. Affection for.

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns

thee;

Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,

Young.

And drags, at each remove, a lengthening chain. Goldsmith. Buro. Character of.

Proud, as Apollo on his forked hill,

Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill
Fed with soft dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
His library (where busts of poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguished race,
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place :
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd every day, and some days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;
To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd;
And others (harder still) he paid in kind,
Dryden alone (what wonder!) came not nigh;
Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye:
But still the great have kindness in reserve;
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

BURKE. Character of.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;

Pope.

Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And tho't of convincing, while they thought of dining.
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient,
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, Sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

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As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen,
Drop on ye both! a southwest blow on ye,
And blister you all o'er!-

I must eat my dinner.

This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother

Goldsmith.

Which thou tak'st from me. When thou camest first,

Thou strok' dst me, and mad'st much of me; would'st give me

Water with berries in't; and teach me how

To name the bigger light, and how the less,

That burn by day and night: and then I lov'd thee,

And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle,

The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place and fertile ;
Cursed be I that did so!-All the charms

Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,

Which first was mine own king, and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
'The rest of the island.

Shakspeare.

CAMP. Night in a camp.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other's watch:
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other's umber'd face:
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice,
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O, now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin'd band,

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry-Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes, and visits all his host;
Bids them good-morrow, with a modest smile;
And calls them-brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note,

How dread an army hath enrounded him ;

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CATARACT OF VELINO.

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night:
But freshly looks, and overbears attaint,
With cheerful semblance, and sweet majesty ;
That very wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
A largess universal, like the sun

His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear.

CASSIUS. Cæsars dislike of.

Would he were fatter!-But 1 fear him not

Yet if my name were liable to fear,

I do not know the man I should avoid

So soon as that spare Cassius.

Shakspeare.

He reads much;
He is a great observer, and he looks

Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music :
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing;
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves;
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd,
Than what I fear, for always I am Cæsar.

CATARACT OF VELINO.

Shakspeare.

The roar of waters !-from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave worn precipice;

The fall of waters! rapid as the light

The flashing mass foams, shaking the abyss,
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this

Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence, again
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,

Is an eternal April to the ground,

Making it all one emerald.-How profound
The gulf! and how the giant element

From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,

Crushing the cliffs, which downward worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent.
To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea

Torn from the wombs of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,

With many windings, thro' the vale :-Look back!
Lo! where it comes like an eternity,

As if to sweep down all things in its track,
Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract—

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,

From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge
Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene

Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene,
Love watching madness with unalterable mien.

CENSURE. Who deserve.

Instructive Satire, true to virtue's cause, Thou shining supplement of public laws!

Byron.

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