The fire-eyed maid of smoky war
All hot and bleeding will we offer them.
SHAKESPEARE.

King Henry IV., Pt. I. Act iv. Sc. 1.

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
Lochiel's Warning.

T. CAMPBELL.

He is come to ope

The purple testament of bleeding war;
But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons
Shall ill become the flower of England's face,
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
To scarlet indignation, and bedew

Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood.
King Richard II., Act iii. Sc. 3.

SHAKESPEARE.

For ever and anon when you have passed

A few dull years in peace and propagation,

The world is overstocked with fools, and wants
A pestilence at least, if not a hero.

Edwin.

G. JEFFERYS.

O War! thou hast thy fierce delight,
Thy gleams of joy intensely bright!
Such gleams as from thy polished shield
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field!
Lord of the Isles.

SIR W. SCOTT.

The tyrant custom, most grave senators,
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
My thrice-driven bed of down.

Othello, Act i. Sc. 3.

SHAKESPEARE.

Hang out our banners on the outward walls;

The cry is still, They come. Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up.

Macbeth, Act v. Sc. 5.

SHAKESPEARE.

War, war is still the cry,-" war even to the knife!" Childe Harold, Canto I.

LORD BYRON.

O, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song, whose breath

May lead to death,

But never to retreating.

O, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

O, the sight entrancing.

From the tents,

T. MOORE.

The armorers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.

King Henry V., Act iv. Chorus.

Father, I call on thee!

SHAKESPEARE.

Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil me, Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts assail me : Ruler of battles, I call on thee!

Father, oh lead thou me !

Prayer During the Battle.

German of K. T. KÖRNER.

Trans. of J. S. BLACKIE.

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe;
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame!
Lochiel's Warning.

T. CAMPBELL.

Not hate, but glory, made these chiefs contend ;
And each brave foe was in his soul a friend.

The Iliad, Bk. VII.

HOMER. Trans. of POPE.

Ay me! what perils do environ

The man that meddles with cold iron.

Hudibras, Pt. I. Canto III.

S. BUTLER.

Now swells the intermingling din; the jar
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage ;-loud, and more loud

The discord grows; till pale Death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud.

War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade, And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore, The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. War.

P. B. SHELLEY.

One to destroy is murder by the law;
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
To murder thousands takes a specious name,
War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.
Love of Fame, Satire VII.

Great princes have great playthings.

DR. E. YOUNG.

But war's a game which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.

The Task: Winter Morning Walk.

Death.

W. COWPER.

One murder made a villain,
Millions a hero. Princes were privileged
To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime.

B. PORTEUS.

Mark where his carnage and his conquest cease! He makes a solitude, and calls it-peace!

The Bride of Abydos, Canto II.

Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,

LORD BYRON.

And takes away the use of it; and my sword,

Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears, Will not be drawn.

A New Way to Pay Old Debts, Act v. Sc. 1.

P. MASSINGER.

Ez fer war, I call it murder,There you hev it plain an' flat ; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that. The Biglow Papers, First Series, No. I.

J. R. LOWELL.

WATERS.

Water is the mother of the vine,
The nurse and fountain of fecundity.
The adorner and refresher of the world.

The Dionysia.

C. MACKAY.

Till taught by pain,

Men really know not what good water 's worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famished boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,

You'd wish yourself where Truth is-in a well.
Don Juan, Canto II.

LORD BYRON.

Water its living strength first shows,
When obstacles its course oppose.

God, Soul, and World.

J. W. GOETHE.

The current, that with gentle murmur glides,

Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with the enamelled stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage.

Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act ii. Sc. 7. SHAKESPEARE.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;

Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,

With here and there a violet bestrewn,

Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave:

And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. The Minstrel, Book II.

J. BEATTIE.

Along thy wild and willowed shore;
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill,
All, all is peaceful, all is still.

Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto IV.

SIR W. SCOTT.

With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks.

The Story of Rimini.

L. HUNT.

The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below! Gertrude, Pt. III.

T. CAMPBELL.

Thou hastenest down between the hills to meet me at the road,

The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode
Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height,
Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with

light.

Friend Brook.

LUCY LARCOM.

Brook! whose society the poet seeks,
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;

And whom the curious painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy waterbreaks. Brook! Whose Society the Poet Seeks.

W. WORDSWORTH.

The roar of waters !-from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;

The fall of waters! rapid as the light

The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture.

Childe Harold, Canto IV.

LORD BYRON.

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!

Yarrow Unvisited.

W. WORDSWORTH.

Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm,
Close sat I by a goodly river's side,

Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm ;
A lonely place, with pleasures dignified.

I, that once loved the shady woods so well,

Now thought the rivers did the trees excel,

And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell. Contemplations.

ANNE BRADSTREET.

Two ways the rivers

Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns

They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents. Christus: The Golden Legend, Pt. V.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;
No longer steel-clad warriors ride
Along thy wild and willowed shore.
Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto IV.

SIR W. SCOTT.

Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake . . .?
Childe Harold, Canto III.

LORD BYRON.