How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet; now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis’ry far away.
If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.
Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face, OF needless shame, and self-impos’d disgrace.
Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah’s Ark.
Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl’d, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
No traveler e’er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.
Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
Great offices will have great talents.
All we behold is miracle.
Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head.
Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule.
Stamps God’s own name upon a lie just made, To turn a penny in the way of trade.
Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, Needs only to be seen to be admired.
A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.