The Schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand,Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.
Part I, line 58. Compare: "Whistling to keep myself from being afraid", John Dryden, Amphitryon Act iii, scene 1. |
The Grave, dread thing!Men shiver when thou 'rt named: Nature, appall'd,Shakes off her wonted firmness.
Robert BlairFriendship! mysterious cement of the soul!Sweetener of life! and solder of society!
Robert BlairOf joys departed,Not to return, how painful the remembrance!
Robert BlairThe cup goes round:And who so artful as to put it by!'T is long since Death had the majority.
Robert BlairThe good he scorn'dStalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost,Not to return; or if it did, in visitsLike those of angels, short and far between.
Robert BlairThe common damn'd shun their society.
Robert BlairSee yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle, Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear.
Robert BlairThe grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.
Robert BlairThe tap'ring pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud.
Robert BlairBut if there be an hereafter, And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man, Then must it be an awful thing to die; More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.
Robert BlairOur time is fixed, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not: this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission.
Robert BlairThe common damn'd shun their society.
Robert BlairYe undertakers, tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal conceal'd, for which You make this mighty stir?
Robert BlairCareless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms: Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades, Beneath the wan, cold Moon (as Fame reports) Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.
Robert BlairSmiled like yon knot of cowslips on a cliff.
Robert Blair