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Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men.

I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse--borne away with every breath.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.

A quiet conscience makes one so serene! Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

There is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self condemn'd He deals on his own soul.

No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

And nearer as they came, a genial savour Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus. Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour.

Like a lovely tree She grew to womanhood, and between whiles Rejected several suitors, just to learn How to accept a better in his turn.

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.

A mere court butterfly, That flutters in the pageant of a monarch.

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure--critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet; Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.

As soon Seek roses in December--ice in June, Hope, constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics.

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet.

And then he danced;--all foreigners excel The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime;--he danced, I say right well, With emphasis, and also with good sense-- A thing in footing indispensable: He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.