6. Let earth dissolve-yon ponderous orb descend,
And grind us into dust-the soul is safe!
The man emerges-mounts above the wreck
As towering flame from nature's funeral pyre!

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

7. When nature ceases, thou shalt still remain,
Nor second chaos bound thy endless reign;
Fate's tyrant laws thy happier lot shall brave,
Baffle destruction, and elude the grave.

8. The soul, secure in her existence, smiles

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years:
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds!

TICKELL.

ADDISON'S Cato.

9. It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well:
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on itself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
"T is heaven itself that points out a hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

10. The soul on earth is an immortal guest,

Compell'd to starve at an unreal feast;

ADDISON'S Cato.

A spark which upward tends by nature's force;
A stream, divided from its parent source;
A drop, dissever'd from the boundless sea;
A moment, parted from eternity;

A pilgrim, panting for the rest to come;
An exile, anxious for his native home.

HANNAH MORE.

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IMMORTALITY - IMPATIENCE, &c.

11. Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie,

But that which warm'd it once shall never die.

CAMPBELL.

12. But I have liv'd, and have not liv'd in vain :
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain—
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and time, and breathe when I expire.
BYRON'S Childe Harold.

13.

Immortality o'ersweeps

All pains, all tears, all time, all fears-and peals
Like the eternal thunders of the deep
Into my ears this truth-Thou liv'st for ever!

66

14. A voice within us speaks that startling word—
Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices
Hymn it into our souls; according harps,
By angel fingers touch'd, when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great Immortality.

BYRON.

R. H. DANA.

IMPATIENCE-PATIENCE.

1. A wretched soul, bruis'd with adversity,
We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry ;
But were we burden'd with like weight of pain,
As much, or more, we should ourselves complain.

2. For there was never yet philosopher,

That could endure the tooth-ache patiently.

3. How poor are they who have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEARE.

4. That which in mean men we entitle patience,

Is pale, cold cowardice in noble breasts.

5.

So tedious is this day,

SHAKSPEARE.

6.

As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child, that hath new robes,
And may not wear them.

Patience! preach it to the winds;

To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves

SHAKSPEARE.

That teach it, laugh at you when you believe them.
OTWAY'S Orphan.

7. O ye cold-hearted, frozen formalists!
On such a theme 't is impious to be calm;
Passion is reason, transport, temper, here.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

8. Patience and resignation are the pillars Of human peace on earth.

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

9. But patience is the virtue of an ass,
That trots beneath his burden, and is quiet.

LORD LANSDOWNE.

10. Oh! how impatience gains upon the soul,
When the long-promis'd hour of joy draws near!
How slow the tardy moments seem to roll!
What spectres rise of inconsistent fear!

MRS. TIGHE'S Psyche.

1. A prison! heavens,-I loathe the hated name,
Famine's metropolis-the sink of shame-
A nauseous sepulchre, whose craving womb
Hourly inters poor mortals in its tomb!

TOM BROWN.

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IMPRISONMENT-PRISON, &c.

2. A prison is in all things like a grave, Where we no better privileges have Than dead men; nor so good.

BISHOP KING.

3. They say this is the dwelling of distress,
The very mansion-house of misery ;—
To me, alas! it seems but just the same
With that more spacious jail-the busy world.

4. Look on him-through his dungeon-grate,
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,
As if it loath'd the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,

His hand upholds his drooping head-
His bloodless cheek is seam'd and hard,
Unshorn his grey, neglected beard,
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevell❜d locks of snow.

BELLER.

J. G. WHITTIER.

5. What has the grey-hair'd prisoner done?
Has murder stain'd his hands with gore?
Not so; his crime's a fouler one-

God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell,
That fittest earthly type of hell!

J. G. WHITTIER.

6. High walls and huge the body may confine,
And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's gaze,
And massive bolts may baffle his design,

And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways:
Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control!
No chains can bind it, and no cells enclose ;
Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole,

And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes!

7. Conceive a crowd of wretched men,
Confin'd, like beasts, in such a den !-

Through their barr'd windows they can see
Birds, beasts, and men, all blithe and free:
They view the azure sky serene,
They gaze on the surrounding scene,
And hope-but hope too late, alas !—
That they from "durance vile" may pass,
To the free atmosphere of life,

Its cares and struggles, toil and strife.

8. Yet prisons-though it is too true

They're evils-still are blessings too;
For, without them, this world would be
One scene of crime and anarchy.

J. T. WATSON.

J. T. WATSON.

IMPUDENCE.

1. He that has but impudence,
To all things has a fair pretence;
And, put among his wants but shame,
To all the world may lay his claim.

BUTLER'S Hudibras.

2. Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

3. To glory some advance a lying claim,

ROSCOMMON.

Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame;
Their front supplies what their ambition lacks :
They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.

4. With that dull, rooted, callous impudence,

Which, dead to shame, and every nicer sense,
Ne'er blush'd; unless, in spreading vice's snares,
He blunder'd on some virtue unawares.

YOUNG.

CHURCHILL.