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In thy heart there is a holy spot,

As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm.

The common ingredients of health and long life For ever green!-the world's breath enters not, The passion-tempest may not break its calin 'Tis thine, all thine.


Great temp'rance, open air, Easy labour, little care.

Sir P. Sidney.

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Heaven's Sovereign spares all beings but himself
That hideous sight-a naked, human heart!
Young's Night Thoughts.

The heart is like the sky a part of heaven,
But changes, night and day, too, like the sky;
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction, as on high;
But when it hath been scorch'd and pierc'd and

Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye Pours forth, at last, the heart's blood turn'd to tears. Byron.

To me she gave her heart-the all
Which tyranny cannot enthral.

Byron's Giaour.

Father of spirits, hear!

Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd, Look on the fountain of the burning tear.

Mrs. Hemans.

Mrs. Iemans.

-I have ease, and I have health,
And I have spirits light as air;
And more than wisdom, more than wealth-
A merry heart that laughs at care.

H. H. Milman.
The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it,
Or who ever read in the depth of their own,
How much we never may speak of, yet feel it,
But even in feeling it, know it unknown?
Miss Landon.
The heart builds up its hopes, though not address d
To meet the sunset glories of the west,
But garner'd in some still, sweet-singing nest.
Miss Landon.

Oh, no! my heart can never be

Again in lightest hopes the same; The love that lingers there for thee Hath more of ashes than of flame.

Miss Landon.

-Seek for a bosom all honest and true,
Where love once awaken'd will never depart;
Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest,
And you'll find there's no home like the home
in the heart.
Eliza Cook.
-We, in the dark chamber of the heart,
Sitting alone, see the world tabled to us;

And the world wonders how recluses know
So much, and most of all, how we know them.

It is they who paint themselves upon our hearts
In their own lights and darknesses, not we.

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A young maiden's heart

Is a rien soil, wherein lie many germs
Hid by the cunning hand of nature there
To put forth blossoms in their fittest season;
And though the love of home first breaks the

With its embracing tendrils clasping it,
Other affections, strong and warm will grow,
While that one fades, as summer's flush of bloom
Succeeds the gentle budding of the spring.
Mrs. Frances K. Butler.

My heart is like the sleeping lake,
Which takes the hue of cloud and sky,
And only feels its surface break

When birds of passage wander by,
Who dip their wings, and upward soar,

And leave it quiet as before.

My heart is like a lonely bird,
That sadly sings,

Brooding upon its nest unheard,
With folded wings.

There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth,
No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat,
Famine nor age have any being there.

Massinger and Decker's Virgin Martyr
What a poor value do men set of heaven!
Heaven, the perfection of all that can
Be said, or thought, riches, delight, or harmony.
Health, beauty; and all these not subject to
The waste of time; but in their height eternal;
Lost for a pension, or poor spot of earth,
Favour of greatness, or an hour's faint pleasure!
As men in scorn of a true flame that's near,
Should run to light their taper at a glow-worm.
Shirley's St. Patrick for Ireland.

Blest heaven, how are thy ways just like thy orbs,
Willis's Poems. Involv'd within each other? Yet still we find
Thy judgments are like comets, that do blaze,
Affright, but die withal; whilst that thy mercies
Are like the stars, who oft-times are obscur'd,
But still remain the same behind the clouds.
Fountain's Rewards of Virtue

I am not old-though time has set
His signet on my brow,

Mrs. Welby.

And some faint furrows there have met,
Which care may deepen now;-
For in my heart a fountain flows,
And round it pleasant thoughts repose,
And sympathics and feelings high
Spring like the stars on evening sky

Park Benjamin.

A pure heart
That burns to ashes, yet conceals its pain,
For fear it mar its hopeless source of love,
Is not to be despised, or lightly held.

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Boker's Calaynos.

The heart, methinks,

Is as the book of God before thee set,
Wherein to read his wond'rous works.
Milton's Paradise Lost.

Were of strange mould, which kept no cherish'd Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night;


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This prospect vast, what is it?—weigh'd aright, | 'Tis nature's system of divinity,

And every student of the night inspires.

'Tis elder scripture, writ by God's own hand:
Scripture authentic! uncorrupt by man.

Young's Night Thoughts.
One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine;
And light us deep into the deity;
How boundless in magnificence and might!
O what a confluence of ethereal fires,

From urns unnumber'd, down the steep of heaven,
Streams to a point, and centres in my sight!
Nor tarries there; I feel it at my heart:
My heart, at once, it humbles, and exalts;
Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies.

Young's Night Thoughts.

Oh, thou beautiful

And unimaginable ether! and

Ye multiplying masses of increas'd

And still increasing lights! what are ye? what
Is this blue wilderness of interminable air,
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden?
Is your course measur'd for ye? or do ye
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry
Through an aerial universe of endless
Expansion, at which my soul aches to think,
Intoxicated with eternity?

Oh God! oh Gods! or whatsoe'er ye are!
How beautiful ye are! how beautiful
Your works, or accident, or whatsoe'er
They may be! let me die, as atoms die,
(If that they die) or know ye in your might

Thrice happy world, where gilded toys
No more disturb our thoughts, no more pollute And knowledge! My thoughts are not in this hour

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And stars are kindling in the firmament,
To us how silent-though like ours, perchance,
Busy and full of life and circumstance.

Rogers's Human Life.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven;
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires-'t is to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have nam'd them-
selves a star. Byron's Childe Harold.
Heaven darkly works;—yet, where the seed hath


There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen.
Mrs. Hemans.
The blue, deep, glorious heavens !—I lift mine eye,
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty

Of their calm temple still! that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night!
I bless thee, O my God!
Mrs. Hemans.
Heaven asks no surplice round the heart that feels,
And all is holy where devotion kneels.

O. W. Holmes.

Unworthy what I see, though my dust is;
Spirit! let me expire, or see them nearer!

Byron's Cain.

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Oh! why do heavenly visions from the mind
Pass, like the rainbow mists that wreathe around,
And tinge with beauty the unsightly rock?

Mrs. Hale's Poems.
Heaven would be hell if lov'd ones were not there,
And any spot a heaven, if we could save
From every stain of earth, and thither bear
The hearts that are to us our hope and care,
The soil whercon our purest pleasures grow
Around the quiet hearth we often share,
From the quick change of thought, the tender flow
Of fondness wak'd by smiles, the world we love




Divines and dying men may talk of hell,
But in my heart her several torments dwell.
Shaks. Yorkshire Tragedy
Yet from these flames
No night, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover sights of woc,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope comes
That comes to all, but torture without end.
Milton's Paradise Lon

There is a place in a black and hollow vault,
Where day is never seen; there shines no sun,
But flaming horror of consuming fires;
A lightless sulphur, choak'd with smoky fogs
Of an infected darkness; in this place
Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts
Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls
Roar without pity; there are gluttons fed
With toads and adders; there is burning oil
Pour'd down the drunkard's throat; the usurer
Is forc'd to sup whole draughts of molten gold;
There is the murderer for ever stabb'd,

Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton
On racks of burning steel, while in his soul
He feels the torment of his raging lust.
There stand those wretched things,

Who have dream'd out whole years in lawless

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The dismal gates, barricadoed strong;
But, long ere our approaching, heard within
Noise, other than the sound of dance or song;
Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor; one who brings
A mind not to be chang'd by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Here we may reign secure; and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Lucifer. Behold my world! Man's science

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counts it not

Upon the brightest sky. He never knows
How near it comes to him; but swath'd in clouds,
As though in plum'd and palled state, it steals
Hearse-like and thief-like round the universe,
For ever rolling and returning not-
Robbing all worlds of many an angel-soul—
With its light hidden in its breast, which burns
With all concentrate and superfluent woe.
Be sure that this is Hell!

In utter darkness far Remote, I beings saw forlorn in woe, Burning continually, yet unconsum'd. And there were groans that ended not, and sighs That always sigh'd, and tears that over wept And ever fell, but not in Mercy's sight. And still I heard these wretched beings curse Almighty God, and curse the Lamb, and curse The earth, the resurrection morn, and seek, And ever vainly seek, for utter death.

Pollock's Course of Time.

The place thou saw'st was hell; the groans thou

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To overcome in battle, and subdue
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
Of human glory, and for glory done
Of triumph, to be styl'd great conquerors,
Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods,
Destroyers rightlier call'd and plagues of men.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Conquerors, who leave behind
Nothing but ruin, wheresoe'er they rove,
And all the flourishing works of peace destroy,
Then swell with pride, and must be titled gods,
Great benefactors of mankind, deliverers,
Worshipp'd with temple, priest and sacrifice;
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other;
Till conq'ror death discover them scarce men,
Rolling in brutish vices, and deform'd,
Violent or shameful death their due reward.
Milton's Paradise Regained

For great commanders only own
What's prosperous by the soldier done.

Butler's Hudibras.

For he was of that noble trade
That demi-gods and heroes made.
Slaughter and knocking on the head,
The trade to which they all were bred;
And is, like others, glorious when
"Tis great and large, but base if mean.
The former rides in triumph for it,
The latter in a two-wheel'd chariot,
For daring to profane a thing
So sacred with vile bungling.

Bailey's Festus.

Butler's Hudibras.

Things of the noblest kind his genius drew,
And look'd through nature at a single view;
A loose he gave to his unbounded soul,
And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll;
Call'd into being scenes unknown before,
And, passing nature's bounds, was something
Churchill's Rosciad.
Yet reason frowns in war's unequal game,
Where wasted nations raise a single name;
And mortgag'd states their grandsire's wreaths


From age to age in everlasting debt;

Proud was his tone, but calm; his eye
Had that compelling dignity,
His mien that bearing haught and high,
Which common spirits fear.

Scott's Lord of the Isles. I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new


Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one.

Byron. Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convey Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel To rust on medals, or on stones decay.


Dr. Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes. Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now.

At every step

Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,
Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil.
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
That may record the mischief he has done.

Cowper's Task.
Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews,
Reward his memory, dear to every muse,
Who with a courage of unshaken root,
In honour's field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that justice draws,
And will prevail or perish in the cause.


But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to nought but his ambition true,
Who for the sake of filling with one blast
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.

Each with a gigantic stride,
Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace
To make his greatness greater, and inscribe
His name in blood.

Rogers's Italy.

And though in peaceful garb arrayed,

And weaponless except his blade,

His stately mien as well implied

A high-born heart and martial pride,

As if a baron's crest he wore,

And sheathed in armour trod the shore.

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All these he wielded to command assent;
But where he wished to win, so well unbent,
That kindness cancelled fear in those who heard
And other's gifts showed mean beside his word,
When echoed to the heart as from his own,
His deep yet tender melody of tone:
But such was foreign to his wonted mood,
He cared not what he softened, but subdued;
The evil passion of his youth had made
Him value less who loved than what obeyed.
Byron's Corsair

They crouched to him, for he had skill,
To warp and wield the vulgar will.

Byron's Siege of Corinth

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,

Scott's Lady of the Lake. Demons in act, but gods at least in face,

On his bold visage middle age
Had slightly pressed his signet sage,
Yet had not quenched the open truth,
And fiery vehemence of youth;
Forward and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to dare,

The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,
Of hasty love, or headlong ire.

Scott's Lady of the Lake.

In Conrad's form seems little to admire,
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire
Robust but not Herculean-to the sight
No giant frame sets forth his common height;
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,
Saw more than makes the crowd of vulgar men,
They gaze and marvel how- and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.
Byron's Corsan

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