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Yes! rear thy guardian Hero's form
On thy proud soil, thou Western World!
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O'er Freedom's flag unfurl'd.
There, as before a shrine ye bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead;
The language of that noble brow

For all things good shall plead.

But story-writers ought for neither glory,
Fear, nor favour, truth of things to spare:
But still it fares, as always it did fare;
Affections, fear, or doubts that daily brew,
Do cause that stories never can be true.
Mirror for Magistrates,

There is a history in all men's lives,
Fig'ring the nature of the times deceas'd;
Mrs. Hemans's Poems. The which observ'd, a man may prophesy
With a near aim, of the main chance of things
As yet not come to life; which in their seeds
And weak beginnings lie entreasured.

Whoever, with an earnest soul,

Strives for some end from this low world afar, Still upward travels though he miss the goal, And strays but towards a star!

Bulwer.

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Shaks. Henry IV. Part II.
Would God our times had had some sacred wight,
Whose words as happy as our swords had been;
To have prepar'd for us trophies aright
Of undecaying frames t' have rested in;
Triumphant arks of perdurable might:
O holy lines! that such advantage win
Upon the scythe of time, in spite of years:
How blessed they, who gain what never wears!
Daniel's Civil War.

I remember in the age of Assaracus
And Ninus, and about the wars of Thebes,
And the siege of Troy, there were few thing

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The style is full, and princely,

Stately and absolute beyond whate'er

These eyes have seen; and Rome, whose majesty
Is there describ'd, in after times shall owe
For her memorial to your learned pen,
More than to all those fading monuments
Built with the riches of the spoiled world.

When rust shall eat her brass, when time's strong

hand

Shall bruise to dust her marble palaces,
Triumphant arches, pillars, obelisks;
When Julius' temple, Claudius' aqueducts,
Agrippa's baths, and Pompey's theatre;
Nay, Rome itself shall not be found at all,
Historians' books shall live;-those strong records,
Those deathless monuments alone shall show
What, and how great, the Roman empire was.
May's Agrippina.

The noblest spur unto the sons of fame,
Is thirst of honour, and to have their name
Enroll'd in faithful history: Thus worth
Was by a wise ambition first brought forth.
Truth is the historian's crown, and art
Squares it to stricter comeliness.

John Hall on Charles Aleyn.
Historians, only things of weight,
Results of persons, or affairs of state,
Briefly, with truth and clearness should relate:
Laconic shortness memory feeds.

Heath.

Some write a narrative of wars and feats
Of heroes little known, and call the rant
A history; describe the man of whom
His own coevals took but little note,
And paint his person, character, and views,
As they had known him from his mother's womb.
Cowper's Task.

Sit at the feet of history-through night
Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace
And show the earlier ages, where her sight
Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er her face;-
When from the genial cradle of our race,
Went forth the tribes of men.

Bryant-The Ages.
The classic days, those mothers of romance,
That roused a nation for a woman's glance,
The age of mystery with its hoarded power,
That girt the tyrant in his storied tower,
Have past and faded like a dream of youth,
And riper eras ask for history's truth.

HOME.

O. W. Holmes.

The first sure symptoms of a mind in health.
Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
Young's Night Thoughts.

Home is the resort

Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polish'd friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.

Thomson's Seasons.

The touch of kindred too and love he feels;
The modest eye, whose beams on his alone
Ecstatic shine: the little strong embrace
Of prattling children, twin'd around his neck,
And emulous to please him, calling forth
The fond paternal soul. Nor purpose gay,
Amusement, dance or song, he sternly scorns;
For happiness and true philosophy
Are of the social, still, and smiling kind.
This is the life which those who fret in guilt,
And guilty cities, never know; the life,
Led by primeval ages, uncorrupt,
When angels dwelt, and God himself, with Man!
Thomson's Seasons.

My country, sir, is not a single spot
Of such a mould, or fix'd to such a clime;
No, 't is the social circle of my friends,
The lov'd community in which I'm link'd,
And in whose welfare all my wishes centre.
Miller's Mahomet
Let me live amongst high thoughts, and smiles
As beautiful as love; with grasping hands,
And a heart that flutters with diviner life
Whene'er my step is heard.

Proctor's Mirandola.

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring

swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please;
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
Goldsmith's Deserted Village.

In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd ski
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt and all I saw;

And, as a hare, whom hound and horns pursue.
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.
Goldsmith's Traveller

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Thus every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And even those hills, that round his mansion rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar,
But bind him to his native mountain more.

Goldsmith's Traveller.

In ev'ry government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
Still to ourselves in ev'ry place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find:

With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
Goldsmith's Traveller.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee things, todlin stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichtering noise and glee;
His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wific's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Burns's Cotter's Saturday Night.

His warm but simple home where he enjoys
With her who shares his pleasure and his heart,
Sweet converse.

Cowper's Task.

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On thy calm joys with what delight I dream, Thou dear green valley of my native stream! Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand, And every nook of time in fairy land.

Bloomfield's Broken Crutch. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand?

Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel There blend the ties that strengthen

Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief!
Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure?
O! do not widely roam!

But seek that hidden treasure
At home, dear home!

Bernard Barton

I flew to the pleasant fields travers'd so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was

young,

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to

part;

My little one kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Campbell
Leans o'er its humble gate and thinks the while-
Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form,
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm.
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope.
To them the very rocks appear to smile;
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle,
The haven hums with many a cheering sound,
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round,
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay,
And sportive dolphins bend them through the
spray;

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek,
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak!
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice
gleams,

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the

beams.

Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,
Like hope's gay glance from ocean's troubled foam.
Byron's Corsair,

Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark, Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

Byron.

He enter'd in his house - his home no more,
For without hearts there is no home;-and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome.

Byron.

And say, without our hopes, without our fears,
Without the home that plighted love endears,
Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh! what were man?- a world without a sun.
Byron.

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a fcast,

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest;

And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
We may order our wings and be off to the west;
But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,
Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies,
We never need leave our own green isle,
For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes.

Moore.

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer rov'd,
And bright were its flowery banks to his eye;
But far, very far were the friends that he lov'd,
And he gaz'd on its flowery banks with a sigh!
O nature! though blessed and bright are thy rays,
O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown,
Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays
In a smile from the heart that is dearly our own!
Moore.

Scenes of my birth, and careless childhood hours!
Ye smiling hills, and spacious fertile vales!
Where oft I wander'd plucking vernal flowers,
And revell'd in the odour-breathing gales;
Should fickle fate, with talismanic wand,
Bear me afar where either India glows,
Or fix my dwelling on the polar land,
Where nature wears her ever-during snows;
Still shall your charms my fondest themes adorn;
When placid evening paints the western sky,
And when Hyperion wakes the blushing morn,
To rear his gorgeous sapphire throne on high.
For to the guiltless heart, where'er we roam,
No scenes delight us like our much-lov'd home.
Robert Hillhouse.

O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Thomas Hood.

When thy heart, in its pride, would stray From the pure first loves of its youth awayWhen the sullying breath of the world would come O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home,

Think of the tree at thy father's door,

And the kindly spell shall have power once more. Mrs. Hemans's Poems.

I love that dear old home! my mother liv'd there Her first sweet marriage years, and last sad widow'd ones.

The sunlight there seems to me brighter far
Than wheresoever else. I know the forms
Of every tree and mountain, hill and dell;
Its waters gurgle like a tongue I know ;-
It is my home.
Mrs. Frances K. Butler.

We leave

Our home in youth-no matter to what end-
Study—or strife—or pleasure, or what not;
And coming back in few short years, we find
All as we left it outside; the old elms,

The house, the grass, gates, and latchet's self-same click:

But lift that latchet,-all is chang'd as doom.
Bailey's Festus.
Between broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all.
There is the barn,—and as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the peewee's mournful song.
Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still;

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have passed within that scented door
To gladden eyes that are no more.

T. Buchanan Read,
Bright is the beautiful land of our birth,
The home of the homeless all over the earth!
Street's Poems.

Home is the sphere of harmony and peace,
The spot where angels find a resting-place,
When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth.
Mrs. Hale's Poems

Nor need we power or splendour,-
Wide hall or lordly dome;
The good, the true, the tender--
These form the wealth of home.

Mrs. Hale's Poems

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Forgive my general and exceptless rashness,
You perpetual sober gods! I do proclaim
One honest man-mistake me not- but one;
No more, I pray-and he is a steward.

Shaks. Timon of Athens.
Methinks thou art more honest now than wise;
For, by oppressing and betraying me,
Thou might'st have sooner got another service:
For many so arrive at second masters,
Upon their first lord's neck.

Shaks. Timon of Athens.

O wretched fool,

That liv'st to make thine honesty a vice;-
O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world!
To be direct and honest is not safe.

Shaks. Othello.

Ay, sir; to be honest as this world goes, Is to be one pick'd out of ten thousand.

Shaks. Hamlet.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats!
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.

Shaks. Julius Cæsar. Lands mortgag'd may return, and more esteem'd; But honesty once pawn'd, is ne'er redeem'd.

Middleton's Trick to catch the old One.

An honest soul is like a ship at sea,
That sleeps at anchor when the ocean's calm;
But when she rages, and the wind blows high,
He cuts his way with skill and majesty.

Beaumont and Fletcher's Honest Man's Fortune.
An honest man is still an unmov'd rock,
Wash'd whiter, but not shaken with the shock:
Whose heart conceives no sinister device;
Fearless he plays with flames, and treads on ice.
Davenport's City Night-Cap.
Take heed what you say, sir!
An hundred honest men! why if there were
So many i' th' city, 't were enough to forfeit
Their charter.

Shirley's Gamester. teav n, that made me honest, made me more Thar ever king did, when he made a lord. Rowe's Jane Shore.

Pope's Essay on Man.

Honesty,

A name scarce echo to a sound - honesty!
Attend the stately chambers of the great-
It dwells not there, nor in the trading world:
Speaks it in councils? No: the sophist knows
To laugh it thence.
Havard's Scanderbeg.

All is vanity which is not honesty-thus is it graven on the tomb;

I speak of honest purpose, character, speech and action. Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy. Honesty, even by itself, though making many adversaries

Whom prudence might have set aside, or charity have soften'd,

Evermore will prosper at the last, and gain a man great honour.

Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy.

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The mere word's a slave,
Debauch'd on every tomb; on every grave,
A lying trophy; and as oft is dumb,
Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Of honour'd bones indeed.

Shaks. All's Well that Ends Well
That is honour'd scorn,
Which challenges itself as honour's born,
And is not like the sire: honours thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive,
Than our fore-goers.

Shaks. All's Well From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignify'd by the doer's deed: When great additions swell, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour.

Shaks. All's Well.

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