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O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain.

'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been; They smile so when one's right; and when one's wrong They smile still more.

So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.

Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.

What gem hath dropp'd, and sparkles o'er his chain? The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain, That starts at once--bright pure--from Pity's mine, Already polish'd by the hand divine!

She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears, For women shed and use them at their liking; But there is something when man's eye appears Wet, still more disagreeable and striking.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave. - Lord Byron ,

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

I stood Among them, but not of them: in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

Whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

The power of Thought,--the magic of the Mind!

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea: But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee!

Weren't the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink.

I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray.

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.

Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief.