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LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
[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;
May mine attract thy pensive eye!
And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,
And think my heart is buried here.
SOLEMN murmur in the soul
Tells of the world to be,
Before they reach the sea.
FROM BAILEY'S FESTUS.
It is much less what we do,
All aspiration is a toil;
Respect is what we owe; love what we give,
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
A little word in kindness spoken,
A motion, or a tear,
And made a friend sincere.
The drying up a single tear has more
Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again,-
The eterual years of God are hers; ButError, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.
Whatsoe'er of beauty
Yearns and yet reposes,
Took a shape in roses.
“ Woman!” With that word
Beware the bowl! though rich and bright
A smile of hope from those we love,
'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.
Were worth a long and endless year
Only the actions of the just
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
--Sir R. Lovelace.
To you no soul shall bear deceit,
No stranger offer wrong;
-R. B. Sheridan.
Reader, attend, --whether thy soul
In low pursuit;
Is wisdom's root.
I can not give what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
And the heavens reject not, --
Of the night for the morrow,
-P. B. Shelley
Better trust all and be deceived,
And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Had blessed one's life with true believing.
O, in this mocking world too fast
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
-Frances Anne Kemble,
So live, that, when thy summons comes to join