A STAY 165. THE BUTTERFLY. TAY near me! do not take thy flight! Much converse do I find in thee, Float near me ! do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee; Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art, Oh, pleasant, pleasant were the days, Together chased the butterfly. Upon the prey; with leaps and springs WORDSWORTH. 166. THE SEVEN AGES. [From As You Like It.] LL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school: and then the lover, age shifts Even in the cannon's mouth: and then, the justice, SHAKESPEARE. 167. DETACHED FRAGMENTS H! what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive! The tear down childhood's cheek that flows, Oh! many a shaft at random sent, Can soothe or wound the heart that's broken. Oh! woman, in our hour of ease By the light, quivering aspen made! Within this awful volume lies SIR W. SCOTT. 168. THE BLESSING OF A CONCEALED HE FUTURE. [From THE ESSAY ON MAN.] TEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly, then; with trembling pinions soar, Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy, and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. POPE. 'TIS 169. SENTIMENTAL RELIGION, IS Sunday morning, and at early hour, The poet seeks his own sequester'd bower: The shining landscape stretches full in view; All heaven is glowing with unclouded blue; The hills lie basking in the sunny beams, Enriched with sprinkled hamlets, woods, and streams: And hark! from tower and steeple, here and there, The cheerful chime bespeaks the hour of prayer. The poet's inmost soul responsive swells His mind's exalted, melted, sooth'd, and free But, gentle poet, wherefore not repair Surrounded by his works, and not confined Let him distinguish (if he car. indeed) Wherein his differs from the deist's creed. Oh, he approves the Bible, thinks it true, (No matter if he ever read it through), Admits the evidence that some reject, For the Messiah professes great respect, And owns the sacred poets often climb Up to the standard of the true sublime. And is this all? and were such wonders wrought, And tongues, and signs, and miracles for nought? If this be all,—his reason's utmost scope,Where rests his faith, his practice, and his hope? Where lies the cross that he would daily bear? Where that reproach the Saviour's flock must share? Where is the dear indulgence he denies? Which of his virtues is a sacrifice? How has he learnt the easy yoke to take, And count all things but loss for Jesus' sake? JANE TAYLOR. |