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[What could be finer than the following verses penned by Lord Byron, at Malta, September 14, 1809, in the album of some otherwise forgotten beauty ?]

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!

And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on ine as on the dead,

And think my heart is buried here.





SOLEMN murmur in the soul

Tells of the world to be,
As travelers hear the billows roll

Before they reach the sea.

Night brings out stars as sorrow shows us truths.

It is much less what we do,
Than what we think, which fits us for the future.

All aspiration is a toil;
But inspiration cometh from above,
And is no labor.

Respect is what we owe; love what we give,
And men would mostly rather give than pay.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He lives most
Who thinks most--feels the noblest--acts the best.

A little word in kindness spoken,

A motion, or a tear,
Has often healed the heart that's broken,

And made a friend sincere.

The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.

- Byron

Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again,-

The eterual years of God are hers; ButError, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.

-- Bryant.

Whatsoe'er of beauty

Yearns and yet reposes,
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath,

Took a shape in roses.

“ Woman!” With that word
Life's dearest hopes and memories come,
Truth, beauty, love, in her adored,
And earth's lost paradise restored,
In the green bower of home.

Beware the bowl! though rich and bright
Its rubies flash upon the sight,
An adder coils its depth beneath,
Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death.



A smile of hope from those we love,
May be an angel from above;
A whispered welcome in our ears,
Be as the music of the spheres;
The pressure of a gentle hand,
Worth all that glitters in the land;
O! trifles are not what they seem,
But fortune's voice and star supreme.

'Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shar'd with thee.
One minute's dream about thee

Were worth a long and endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!

--Tom Moore.

Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

-J. Shirley.

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

--Sir R. Lovelace.

To you no soul shall bear deceit,

No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.

-R. B. Sheridan.

Reader, attend, --whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit;
Know prudent, cautious self-control

Is wisdom's root.

--R. Burns.

I can not give what men call love;

But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above,

And the heavens reject not, --
The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

-P. B. Shelley

Better trust all and be deceived,

And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that if believed

Had blessed one's life with true believing.

O, in this mocking world too fast

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

-Frances Anne Kemble,

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,

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