Relentless Time! that steals with silent tread,
Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.
Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top,

With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;
The feeble characters of Glory's hand
Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;
But not with these expire the sacred flame
Of virtue, or the good man's awful name.

Bowles.

O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile—

As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while: Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

Bowles.

COMMON THISTLE....Misanthropy.

Who would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be

In utter darkness lying,

Than be blest with light, and see
That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,—
The brightest still the fleetest,
All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest!

Moore.

I had much rather see

A crested dragon or a basilisk,

Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.

Hate all, curse all: show charity to none;

Dryden.

But let the famished flesh slide from the bone,

Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogs

What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow them, Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted

woods,

And may diseases lick up their false bloods.

Shakspeare.

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind:
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

Shakspeare.

I'll keep my way alone, and burn away—
Evil or good I care not, so I spread
Tremendous desolation on my road:
I'll be remembered as huge meteors are;
From the dismay they scatter.

I see thou art implacable, more deaf

Proctor.

To prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and seas Are reconciled at length, and sea to shore:

Thy anger, unappeasable, still rages

Eternal tempest never to be calm.

Milton.

Warped by the world in disappointment's school,
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool;
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,
Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe,
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill,
And not the traitors who betrayed him still;
Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men,
Had left him joy, and means to give again.

Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her force,
He hated men too much to feel remorse,

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call,
To pay the injuries of some on all.

Byron.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

Shelley.

They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,
As if the Star of Bitterness which fell

On earth of old, and touched them with its beams, Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate; And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out, at times, in love's own native light— How gladly all, who've watched these struggling rays Of a bright, ruined spirit through his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,

What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse—

Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lasts
Naught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!

Moore.

DEW PLANT.... Serenade.

Inesilla! I am here:

Thy own cavalier

Is now beneath thy lattice playing:

Why art thou delaying?

He hath ridden many a mile

But to see thy smile:

The young light on the flowers is shining,

Yet he is repining.

What to him is a summer star,

If his love's afar?

What to him the flowers perfuming,

When his heart's consuming?

Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide ?

Beauty may abide

Even before the eye of morning,

And want no adorning.

Now, upon their paths of light,

Starry spirits bright

To catch thy brighter glance are staying:

Why art thou delaying?

Barry Cornwall.