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All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.

POPE.

Umbriel, a dusky melancholy sprite
As ever sullied the fair face of light,
Down to the central earth, his proper scene,
Repairs to search the gloomy cave of spleen.
РОРЕ.

Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin;
That single act gives half the world the spleen.
РОРЕ.

But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades every flower, and darkens every green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
POPE: Eloisa.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns,
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins ?
POPE: Eloisa.

To ease the soul of one oppressive weight,
This quits an empire, that embroils a state :
The same adust complexion has impell'd
Charles to the convent, Philip to the field.
POPE: Moral Essays.

If, while this wearied flesh draws fleeting breath,
Not satisfied with life, afraid of death,
If haply be thy will that I should know
Glimpse of delight, or pause from anxious woe;
From now, from instant now, great Sire, dispel
The clouds that press my soul.

PRIOR.

Vexatious thought still found my flying mind, Nor bound by limits, nor to place confined, Haunted my nights, and terrified my days, Stalk'd through my gardens, and pursued my ways;

Nor shut from artful bow'r, nor lost in winding

maze.

PRIOR.

Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly,
Lies all neglected, all forgot;
And pensive, wav'ring, melancholy,
Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not

what.

PRIOR.

Through these sad shades, this chaos in my

soul,

Some seeds of light at length began to roll;
The rising motion of an infant ray

Shot glimm'ring through the cloud, and promised day.

PRIOR.

Go-you may call it madness, folly,-
You shall not chase my gloom away;
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay!

ROGERS.

Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee

Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?
Why dost thou bend thy eyes upon the earth,
And start so often when thou sitt'st alone?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks,
And giv'n thy treasures and my rights of thee
To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy?
SHAKSPEARE.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

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But in that instant o'er his soul
Winters of memory seem'd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime:
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moments hold the grief of years.

BYRON.

But ever and anon, of grief subdued
There comes a token, like a serpent's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued.
BYRON: Childe Harold.

Joy's recollection is no longer joy;
But sorrow's memory is sorrow still!

BYRON: Marino Faliero.

While Memory watches o'er the sad review
Of joys that faded like the morning dew.

CAMPBELL: Pleasures of Hope.

What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd!
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill.

COWPER: Walking with God.

O days remember'd well! remember'd all!
The bitter sweet, the honey and the gall;
Those garden rambles in the silent night,
Those trees so shady, and that moon so bright,
That thickset alley by the arbour closed,
That woodbine seat where we at last reposed;
And then the hopes that came and then were
gone,

Quick as the clouds beneath the moon past on.
CRABBE.

No joy like by-past joy appears;
For what is gone we fret and pine:
Were life spun out a thousand years,

It could not match Langsyne!

DELTA. (D. M. MOIR.)

Had memory been lost with innocence,

We had not known the sentence nor th' offence;
'Twas his chief punishment to keep in store
The sad remembrance what he was before.
DENHAM.

None grow so old

Not to remember where they hid their gold;
From
age such art of memory we learn
To forget nothing what is our concern:
Their interest no priest nor sorcerer
Forgets, nor lawyer, nor philosopher;
No understanding memory can want
Where wisdom studious industry doth plant.

DENHAM.

Sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind, Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind: The nurse's legends are for truths received, And the man dreams but what the boy believed. DRYDEN.

O memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still unfortunate and vain,

To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain: Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe.

GOLDSMITH.

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. GOLDSMITH: Deserted Village.

Ah, tell me not that memory

Sheds gladness o'er the past: What is recall'd by faded flowers, Save that they do not last? Were it not better to forget, Than but remember and regret?

L. E. LANDON.

We might have been,-these are but common words,

And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing: They are the echo of those finer chords Whose music we deplore, when unavailing. We might have been!

Life knoweth no like misery: the rest
Are single sorrows; but in this are blended
All sweet emotions that disturb the breast;
The light that once was loveliest is ended.
We might have been!

Henceforth, how much of the full heart must be
A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble!
A still voice mutters 'mid our misery,
The worst to bear, because it must dissemble,
We might have been!

L. E. LANDON.

Ease to the body some, none to the mind
From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm
Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone,
But rush upon me thronging, and present
Times past, what once I was, and what I'm now.

MILTON.

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Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells!
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

MOORE.

There are moments of life that we never forget, Which brighten, and brighten, as time steals

away;

They give a new charm to the happiest lot, And they shine on the gloom of the loneliest day.

J. G. PERCIVAL. The last, scarce ripen'd into perfect man, Saw helpless him from whom their life began: Mem'ry and forecast just returns engage; That pointed back to youth, this on to age. POPE

O queen, farewell! and, still possest Of dear remembrance, blessing still and blest.

POPE.

The moments past, if thou art wise, retrieve With pleasant mem'ry of the bliss they gave; The present hours in present mirth employ, And bribe the future with the hopes of joy. PRIOR.

I, waking, view'd with grief the rising sun, And fondly mourn'd the dear delusion gone. PRIOR.

No harsh reflection let remembrance raise; Forbear to mention what thou canst not praise. PRIOR.

Hail, memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And place and time are subject to thy sway!

ROGERS: Pleasures of Memory. Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain; Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies!

ROGERS: Pleasures of Memory.

When musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone.

SIR W. SCOTT: Marmion.

I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.

SHAKSPEARE.

Let never day nor night unhallow'd pass, But still remember what the Lord hath done.

SHAKSPEARE.

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Such were our faults; O! then we thought them Mercy is good, but kings mistake its timing.

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