Thus when the Christian's contest doth begin,
Hope fights with doubts, till faith's reserves come in.
Hope comes desiring and expects relief;
Faith follows, and peace springs from firm belief.
Hope balances occurrences of time;
Faith will not stop till it has reach'd the prime.
Just like co-partners in joint stock of trade,
What one contracts is by the other paid.
Make use of hope thy labouring soul to cheer,
Faith shall be giv'n, if thou wilt persevere.
We see all things alike with either eye,
So faith and hope the self-same object spy.
But what is hope? or where or how begun?
It comes from God, as light comes from the sun.
Thomas Hogg.
Hopes, what are they? Beads of morning,
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.
Hope rules a land for ever green;
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of the
Saviour.
Longfellow.
God wills, man hopes; in common souls
Hope is but vague and undefin'd,
Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls
A blessing to his kind.
James R. Lowell. -Hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams, Till the eye dances in the void of dreams.
Promising well, and love-touch'd dreams for some, And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes Wordsworth. For gold and pleasure.—
Oh, if there were not better hopes than these―
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-
If truth, and fervour, and devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die with their own fulness—if beyond
The grave there is no heaven, in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love
Of whose bright habitants this lavish heart
May spend itself—what thrice-mock'd fools are we!
Wallis
I saw young Harry with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd.
Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury.
And vaulted with such ease into his seat.
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship
Shaks. Henry IV. Part
As seamen ride with all their force,
And tug as if they row'd the horse,
And when the hackney sails most swift,
Believe they lag, or run adrift.
Butler's Hudibras.
The beast was sturdy, large, and tall,
With mouth of meal, and eyes of wall,
I would sav eye, for h' had but one.
As most agree the' some say none.
After many strains and heaves,
He got up to the saddle-eaves,
From whence he vaulted into th' seat,
With so much vigour, strength, and heat,
That he had almost tumbled over
With his own weight, but did recover,
By laying hold of tail and mane,
Which oft he us'd instead of rein.
Butler's Hudibras. The courser paw'd the ground with restless feet, And snorting foam'd and champ'd the golden bit. Dryden's Palamon and Arcite. Then peers grew proud in horsemanship t' excel, Newmarket's glory rose, as Britain's fell.
With flowing tail and flying mane,
With nostrils never streak'd by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod,
A thousand horse-the wild-the free-
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,
Came thundering on.
My beautiful! my beautiful! That standest meekly by
Therein he them full fair did entertain,
Byron's Mazeppa. Not with such forged shows as fitter been
With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck,
And dark and fiery eye;—
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-
Thy master hath his gold-
Fleet-limb'd and beautiful, farewell!
Thou 'rt sold, my steed-thou 'rt sold!
For courting fools, that courtesies would faine,
But with entire affection and appearance plain.
Spenser's Fairy Queen.
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality.
Mrs. Norton. You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold,
That is not often vouch'd, while 't is a making,
'Tis given with welcome: to feed, were best at
'home;
When troubled in spirit, when weary of life, When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife
From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony;
When its fruits, turn'd to ashes, are mocking my Meeting were bare without it.
And its fairest scene scems but a desolate waste; Now good digestion wait on appetite,
Then come ye not near me, my sad soul to cheer
With friendship's soft accents or sympathy's tear;
No counsel I ask, and no pity I need,
I charge thee, inve them all: let in the tide But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young Of knaves once more; my cook and I'll provide.
Oh! not all the pleasure that poets may praise,
Not the wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze,
Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race,
Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase,
Nor the sail high heaving waters o'er,
Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore,-
Can the wild and fearless joy exceed
Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed.
Shaks. Timon of Athens The broken soldie, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd w glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
le chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain.
Goldsmith's Deserted Village.
Blest be the spot, where cheerful guests retire,
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire.
Blest that abode, where want and pain despair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair:
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks, that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale,
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.
Goldsmith's Traveller. Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers
Her mighty spirit; then, when she weeps, All things were held in common, and what one had Gather up her tears for scatter'd pearl.
Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,
So mighty, and so many my defects,
That I would rather hide me from my greatness
Being a bark to brook no mighty sea-
Than in my greatness covet to be hid,
And in the vapour of my glory smother'd.
He that will once give the
Wall, shall be quickly thrust into the kennel.
Chapman's May-Day.
Humility is eldest-born of virtue,.
And claims the birth-right at the throne of heav'n.
Murphy's Zobeide.
Shaks. Richard III. Humility, that low, sweet root,
Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.
Shaks. As you like it.
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose,
In piteous chase.
But, up to the mountains;
And puts his last weak refuge in despair.
The big round tears run down his dappled face;
He groans in anguish; while the growling pack,
Blood-happy, hang at his fair-jutting chest,
And mark his beauteous chequer'd sides with gore.
Thomson's Seasons.
The forest music is to hear the hounds
Rend the thin air, and with a lusty cry
Awake the drowsy echo, and confound
Their perfect language in a mingled sound.
Day's Isle of Gulls.
Shaks. As you like it. The healthy huntsman, with a cheerful horn,
Summons the dogs and greets the dappled morn.
The jocund thunder wakes th' enliven'd hounds,
They rouse from sleep, and answer sounds for
sounds;
This is not hunter's language: he that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o' the feast;
To him the other two shall minister;
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state.
Wild through the furzy field their route they take,
Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake;
Shaks. Cymbeline. The flying game their smoking nostrils trace,
No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace;
The distant mountains echo from afar,
And hanging woods resound the flying war:
The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears,
Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling ears;
The slacken'd rein now gives him all his speed,
Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed;
Wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds will make the welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.
Shaks. Taming the Shrew.
We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top,
And mark the musical confusion
Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream. | Hills, dales, and forests, far behind remain,
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream.
Hunting is the noblest exercise,
Makes men laborious, active, wise,
Brings health, and doth the spirits delight,
It helps the hearing, and the sight:
It teacheth arts that never slip
The memory, good horsemanship,
Search, sharpness, courage and defence,
And chaseth all ill habits thence.
Jonson's Masques.
Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare!
Scar'd from the corn, and now to some lorn seat
Retir'd the rushy fen; the ragged furze,
While the warm scent draws on the deep-mouth'd
Gay's Rural Sport.
Stretch'd o'er the stony heath; the stubble chapt; The gallant chiding loads the trembling air.
Hark! the loud peal begins, the clam'rous joy,.
The thistly lawn; the thick entangled broom;
Of the same friendly hue, the wither'd fern;
The fallow ground laid open to the sun,
Concoctive; and the nodding sandy bank,
Hung o'er the mazes of the mountain brook;
Vain is her best precaution.
Once more, ye jovial train, your courage try,
And each clean courser's speed. We scour along
In pleasing hurry and confusion toss'd⚫
Oblivion to be wish'd
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In vain malignant streams and winter fogs
Load the dull air, and hover round our coasts;
The huntsman, ever gay, robust, and bold,
Defies the noxious vapour, and confides
In this delightful exercise to raise
His drooping head and cheer his heart with joy.
Somerville's Chase.
Ye vig'rous swains! while youth ferments your
blood,
And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,
Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,
Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.
When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds,
And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds,
Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,
Panting with hope he tries the furrow'd grounds;
But when the tainted gales the game betray,
Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey;
Secure they trust th' unfaithful field beset,
'Till hov'ring o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net.
Pope's Windsor Forest.
The cheerful morn
Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting steed.
Already see the deep-mouth'd bugles catch
The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport
Intent, with emulous impatience try
Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey
Delights you more, go chase the desperate deer;
And through its deepest solitudes awake
The vocal forest with the jovial horn.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health.
Liv'd in his saddle, lov'd the chase, the course,
And always, e'er he mounted, kiss'd his horse,
Cowper's Retirement.
Again impetuous to the field he flies,
Leaps ev'ry fence but one-there falls and dies;
Like a slain deer, the tumbril brings him home,
Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom.
Cowper's Progress of Error.
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When huntsmen wind the merry horn,
And from its covert starts the fearful prey;
Who, warm'd with youth's blood in his swelling
veins,
Would, like a lifeless clod outstretched lie,
Shut up from all the fair creation offers ?
Joanna Baillie's Ethwald.
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow, and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me!
Scott's Lady of the Lake
As chief who hears his warder call,
"To arms! the foemen storm the wall,"
The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But, ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook;
Like crested leader proud and high,
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky;
A moment gaz'd adown the dale,
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale,
A moment listen'd to the cry,
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd,
And stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.
Scott's Lady of the Laks
An hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong,
Clatter'd an hundred steeds along,
Their peal the merry hours rung out,
An hundred voices join'd the shout;
With hark and whoop, and wild halloo,
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew:
Far from the tumult fled the roe,
Close in her covert cower'd the doc,
The falcon from her cairn on high,
Cast on the rout a wandering eye,
Till far beyond her piercing ken,
The hurricane had swept the glen;
Faint and more faint, its failing din
Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn,
And silence settled, wide and still,
On the lone wood and mighty hill.
Scott's Lady of the Lake He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o'er several country gentlemen. Byron.
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