BY

MISS EMMA MARY GOLDIE.

Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do;
Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd
But to fine issues; nor nature never lends
The smallest scruple of her excellence,
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor,
Both thanks and use.

SHAKSPEARE.

Sweeps his long arm that sabre's whirling sway;

Sheds fast atonement for its first delay;

Completes his fury what their fear begun;

And makes the many basely quail to one.

LORD BYRON.

THE LIBERTINE's BRIDE

131

.

Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that,

And manage it against despairing thoughts.

SHAKSPEARE.

PAGE

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE WORLD

221

What if all
Her stores were open'd, and this firmament
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire,
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall
One day upon our heads?

MILTON.