Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots
Thro' the wrung bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen.
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold,
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense;
And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows, a stiffen'd corpse,
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast

Thomson.

SOCIETY. Misery of being cut off from.

Unhappy he! who from the first of joys,
Society, cut off, is left alone

Amid this world of death. Day after day,
Sad on the jutting eminence he sits,
And views the main that ever toils below;
Still fondly forming in the furthest verge,
Where the round ether mixes with the wave,
Ships, dim-discover'd, dropping from the clouds;
At evening, to the sitting sun he turns

A mournful eye, and down his dying heart
Sinks helpless; while the wonted roar is up,
And hiss continual through the tedious night.

Thomson.

SOLDIERS. English, Scottish, and Irish.
A various host-from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown-
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim

SOLICITATION.

And with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
Her's their bold port, and her's their martial frown,
And her's their scorn of death in freedom's cause,
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,
And the blunt speech that burst without a pause,

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And freeborn thoughts, which league the soldier with the laws.

And O! loved warriors of the minstrel's land!
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave
The rugged form may mark the mountain band,
And harsher features, and a mein more grave:
But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so brave
As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid;
And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,
And level for the charge your arms are laid,
Where lives the desperate foe, that for such onset staid!

Hark! from yon stately rank what laughter rings,
Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy,
His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings,
And moves to death with military glee :

Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free,
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,
Rough nature's children, humorous as she:

And he, yon chieftain-strike the proudest tone

Of thy bold harp, green isle !-the hero is thine own. Scott.

He was not taken well; he had not dined:
The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then
We pout upon the morning, are unapt
To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd
These pipes and these conveyances of our blood
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls

Than in our priest-like fasts; therefore I'll watch him
Till he be dieted to my request.

SOLITUDE. Feelings excited by.

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

SOLITUDE. Bad Effects of.

For solitude, however some may rave,.
Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave,
A sepulchre in which the living lie,

Where all good qualities grow sick and die.

Shakspeare.

I praise the Frenchman, his remark was shrewd-
How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper-solitude is sweet.

SOLITUDE. Worst kind of.

Cowper.

Cowper.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold,
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with nature's charm, and see her stores unroll❜d.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tir'd denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought and sued.
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

SOLITUDE. Preferred to a Court Life.
Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which, when it bites, and blows upon my body
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,
This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am

Byron

Shakspeare

SONG. Of the Young Bard Caradoc.

Inclining on his harp,

He, while his comrades in probation song

Approved their claim, stood harkening, as it seemed;

And yet like unintelligible sounds

He heard the symphony and voice attuned:

Even in such feelings as, all undefined,

Come with the flow of waters to the soul,
Or with the motions of the moonlight sky.
But when his bidding came, he, at the call
Arising from the dreamy mood, advanced,
Threw back his mantle, and began the lay.

Where are the sons of Gavran ? where his tribe
The faithful? Following their beloved chief,
They the green islands of the ocean sought.
Nor human tongue hath told, nor human ear
Since from the silver shores they went their way,
Hath heard their fortunes. In his chrystal ark,
Whither sailed Merlin with his band of bards,
Old Merlin, master of the mystic lore?
Belike his chrystal ark, instinct with life,
Obedient to the mighty master, reached
The land of the departed: there, belike,
They in the clime of immortality,
Themselves immortal, drink the gales of bliss,
That o'er Flathinnis breathe eternal spring,
That blend whatever odours make the gale

Of evening sweet, whatever melody

Charms the wood-traveller. In their high-roofed halls,
There, with the chiefs of other days, feel they
The mingled joy pervade them?—Or beneath
The mid-sea waters, did that chrystal ark
Down to the secret depths of ocean plunge
Its fated crew? Dwell they in coral bowers
With mermaid loves, teaching their paramours
The songs that stir the sea, or make the winds
Hush, and the waves be still? In fields of joy
Have they their home, where central fires maintain
Perpetual summer, where one emerald light
Through the green element for ever flows?

Southey.