All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. POPE. Umbriel, a dusky melancholy sprite Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin; But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, In these deep solitudes and awful cells, To ease the soul of one oppressive weight, If, while this wearied flesh draws fleeting breath, 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, what. PRIOR. Through these sad shades, this chaos in my soul, Some seeds of light at length began to roll; Shot glimm'ring through the cloud, and promised day. PRIOR. Go-you may call it madness, folly,- ROGERS. Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, But in that instant o'er his soul BYRON. But ever and anon, of grief subdued Joy's recollection is no longer joy; BYRON: Marino Faliero. While Memory watches o'er the sad review CAMPBELL: Pleasures of Hope. What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! COWPER: Walking with God. O days remember'd well! remember'd all! Quick as the clouds beneath the moon past on. No joy like by-past joy appears; It could not match Langsyne! DELTA. (D. M. MOIR.) Had memory been lost with innocence, We had not known the sentence nor th' offence; None grow so old Not to remember where they hid their gold; 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, 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 Henceforth, how much of the full heart must be L. E. LANDON. Ease to the body some, none to the mind MILTON. Those evening bells! those evening bells! 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, SIR W. SCOTT: Marmion. I cannot but remember such things were, SHAKSPEARE. Let never day nor night unhallow'd pass, But still remember what the Lord hath done. SHAKSPEARE. |