Whose every day is carnival, not sated yet! Unheard of epicure! without a fellow ! The veriest gluttons do not always cram ; Some intervals of abstinence are sought To edge the appetite; thou seekest none.
Friend to the wretch whom every friend forsakes, I woo thee, Death!
All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades Like the fair flow'r dishevell'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream; The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
Heav'n! what enormous strength does death possess ! How muscular the giant's arm must be,
To grasp that strong-boned horse, and spite of all His furious efforts, fix him to the earth!
Yet, hold, he rises!-no-the struggle's vain, His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe Of the remorseless monster, stretch'd at length He lies, with neck extended, head hard press'd Upon the very turf where late he fed.
Death! to the happy thou art terrible,
But how the wretched love to think of thee
O thou true comforter, the friend of all
Who have no friend beside. Southey's Joan of Arc.
Torture thou may'st, but thou shalt ne'er despise me : The blood will follow, where the knife is driven;
The flesh will quiver, where the pincers tear; And sighs and cries by nature grow on pain: But these are foreign to the soul: Not mine The groans that issue, or the tears that fall; They disobey me; on the rack I scorn thee.
Young's Revenge, a. 5.
Thou think'st I fear thee, cursed reptile; And hast a pleasure in the damned thought. Though my heart's blood should curdle at thy sight, I'll stay and face thee still.
Joann Baillie's De Montford, a. 1, s. 2.
Let them wield the thunder,
Fell is their dint, who 're mailed in despair.
Maturin's Bertram, a. 2, s. 3.
On this spot I stand
The champion of despair-this arm my brand— This breast my panoply-and for my gage- (Oh thou hast reft from me all knightly pledge,) Take these black hairs torn from a head that hates thee, Deep be their dye, before that pledge is ransomed- In thine heart's blood or mine. Ibid, a. 4, s. 1.
Henceforth his might we know, and know our own, So as not either to provoke, or dread
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.
He ended frowning, and his look denounc'd Desp❜rate revenge, and battle dangerous To less than Gods.
Whence and what art thou, execrable shape, That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance Thy miscreated front athwart my way
To yonder gates? through them I mean to pass, That be assured, without leave ask'd of thee: Retire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, Hell-born, not to contend with spirits of Heav'n. Ibid.
Reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heav'n, Hell-doom'd, and breath'st defiance here and scorn Where I reign king, and to enrage thee more, Thy king and lord? Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 2.
If I must contend, said he,
Best with the best, the sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glory will be won, Or less be lost.
Then when I am thy captive talk of chains, Proud limitary cherub, but ere then Far heavier load thyself expect to feel From my prevailing arm, though heav'n's king Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, Us'd to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the road of heav'n star-pav'd.
Our puissance is our own; our own right hand Shall teach us highest deeds, by proof to try Who is our equal: then thou shalt behold Whether by supplication we intend
Address, and to begirt th' Almighty throne Beseeching or besieging.
Nature herself started back when thou wert born,
And cry'd, the work's not mine.
The midwife stood aghast; and when she saw Thy mountain-back, and thy distorted legs,
Half-minted with the royal stamp of man,
And half o'ercome with beast, she doubted long Whose right in thee were more;
And knew not if to burn thee in the flames Were not the holier work.
Am I to blame, if nature threw my body In so perverse a mould? Yet when she cast Her envious hand upon my supple joints, Unable to resist, and rumpl'd them
On heaps in their dark lodging; to revenge Her bungl'd work, she stamp'd my mind more fair, And as from chaos, huddl'd and deform'd, The gods struck fire, and lighted up the lamps That beautify the sky; so she inform'd
This ill-shap'd body with a daring soul,
And making less than man, she made me more.
Never did bring forth a man without a man ; Nor could the first man, being but The passive subject, not the active mover, Be the maker of himself; so, of necessity, There must be a power superior to nature.
Tourneur's Atheist's Tragedy.
And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all temples, the upright heart and pure Instruct me, for thou know'st.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.
Beyond compare the Son of God was seen Most glorious; in him all his father shone Substantially exprest; and in his face Divine compassion visibly appear'd, Love without end, and without measure grace.
For wonderful indeed are all his works, Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all Had in remembrance always with delight; But what created mind can comprehend
Their number, or the wisdom infinite
That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep. Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 3.
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair; thyself how wond'rous then! Unspeakable, who sit'st above these heavens To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Hail, source of being! Universal soul Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail ! To thee I bend the knee; to thee my thoughts Continual climb; who, with a master hand, Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd.
Thomson's Seasons-Spring.
And yet was every fault'ring tongue of man, Almighty Father! silent in thy praise! Thy works themselves would raise a general voice, Even in the depth of solitary woods By human foot untrod, proclaim thy power, And to the quire celestial Thee resound, The eternal cause, support, and end of all!
Let no presuming impious railer tax Creative Wisdom, as if aught was form'd In vain, or not for admirable ends. Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce His works unwise, of which the smallest part Exceeds the narrow vision of his mind?
With what an awful world-revolving power Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along The illimitable void! Thus to remain,
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