SEEING the snail, which every where doth roam,
Carrying his own home still, still is at home,
Follow (for he is easy paced) this snail;
Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.
Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends,
And dear relations mingle into bliss.
His warm but simple home, where he enjoys,
With her who shares his pleasure and his heart,
Sweet converse.
'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Belov'd by heaven o'er all the world beside:
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
J. Montgomery.
And, oh, the atmosphere of home! how bright
It floats around us while we sit together,
Under a bower of vine in summer weather,
Or round the hearth-stone on a winter's night.
Park Benjamin.
Like a thing of the desert, alone in its glee,
I make a small home seem an empire to me;
Like a bird in the forest, whose world is its nest.
My home is my all, and the centre of rest.
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. J. H. Payne.
Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes,
Is to be one picked out of ten thousand.-Shakspere.
Lands mortgag'd, may return, and more esteem'd;
But honesty, once pawn'd, is ne'er redeem'd.
The man who pauses in his honesty
Wants little of the villain.
A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod;
An honest man's the noblest work of God.
All are not just because they do no wrong;
But he, who will not wrong me when he may,
He is the truly just. praise not those
Who in their petty dealings pilfer not,
But him, whose conscience spurns at secret fraud,
When he might plunder and defy surprise.
His be the praise, who, looking down with scorn
On the false judgment of the partial herd,
Consults his own clear heart, and boldly dares
To be, not to be thought, an honest man.
A king may mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he manna fa' that.
For a' that and a' that,
Their dignities and a' that;
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.
UPON his brow shame is ashamed to sit,
For 't is a throne where honour may be crowned,
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
Honour is like the glassy bubble,
Which cost philosophers such trouble;
Where one part crack'd, the whole does fly,
And wits are crack'd to find out why.
Honour's a fine imaginary notion,
That draws in raw and inexperienced men
To real mischiefs, while they hunt a shadow.
Honour, a word of nice import,
A pretty trinket in a court,
Which my lord quite in rapture feels
Dangling, and rattling with his seals-
Honour-a sound which all the Nine
Would be much puzzled to define—
Honour-a word which torture mocks,
And might confound a thousand Lockes-
Which (for I leave to wiser heads,
Who fields of death prefer to beds
Of down, to find out, if they can,
What Honour is, on their wild plan)
Is not, to take it in their way,
And this we sure may dare to say
Without incurring an offence,
Courage, law, honesty, or sense.
I've scann'd the actions of his daily life
With all the industrious malice of a foe;
And nothing meets mine eyes but deeds of honour.
Honour and glory were given to cherish;
Cherish them, then, though all else should decay; Landmarks be these, that are never to perish,
Stars that will shine on the duskiest day.
THE miserable have no other medicine,
But only hope.
Hope with a goodly prospect feeds the eye,
Shows from a rising ground possession nigh;
Shortens the distance, or o'erlooks it quite:
So easy 't is to travel with the sight.
Yet when an equal poise of hope and fear
Does arbitrate the event, my nature is
That I incline to hope rather than fear.
When pains are lessen'd by the hope of cure.-Nabb.
Hope! of all the ills that men endure,
The only cheap and universal cure!
Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's health! Thou lover's victory, and thou beggar's wealth.
Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here:
Joy has her tears, and transport has her death;
Hope, like a cordial, innocent though strong,
Man's heart at once inspirits and serenes,
Nor makes him pay his wisdom for his joys.-Young.
O hope! sweet flatterer! thy delusive touch
Sheds on afflicted minds the balm of comfort-
Relieves the load of poverty-sustains
The captive, bending with the weight of bonds,-
And smooths the pillow of disease and pain.-Glover.
Eternal Hope! When yonder spheres sublime
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of time,
Thy joyous youth began, but not to fade,
When all thy sister planets had decay'd;-
When wrapt in flames the clouds of ether glow,
And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below,
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile!
Our aiery buildeth in the cedar's top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.
For their own sakes to do things worthily.
He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither hope nor fear can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same:
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!
One finds out he's of stature rather low;
Your hero always should be tall you know:
True natural greatness all consists in height,
Produce your voucher critic-Serjeant Kite.
'Tis from high life high characters are drawn;
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn;
A judge is just, a chancellor juster still;
A gown-man, learn'd; a bishop what you will;
Wise, if a minister; but if a king,
More wise, more learn'd, more just, more everything.
OVER them sad Horror, with grim hue,
Did always soar, beating his iron wings,
And after him owls and night-ravens flew,
The hateful messengers of heavy things. Spenser. Doubtless all souls have a surviving thought, Therefore of death we think with quiet mind; But if we think of being turned to nought,
A trembling horror in our souls we find.-Davies.
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