Part 26

O happy souls, by death at length set free From the dark prison of mortality, By glorious deeds, whose memory never dies-- From earth's dim spot exalted to the skies! What fury stood in every eye confessed! What generous ardor fired each manly breast, While slaughtered heaps distained the sandy shore, And the tinged ocean blushed with hostile gore! O'erpowered by numbers, gloriously ye fell: Death only could such matchless courage quell; Whilst dying thus ye triumphed o'er your foes-- Its fame the world, its glory heaven, bestows!

SONNET ON THE FORT.

From 'midst these walls, whose ruins spread around, And scattered clods that heap the ensanguined ground, Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight, To better regions took their happy flight. Long with unconquered souls they bravely stood, And fearless shed their unavailing blood: Till, to superior force compelled to yield, Their lives they quitted in the well-fought field. This fatal soil has ever been the tomb Of slaughtered heroes, buried in its womb: Yet braver bodies did it ne'er sustain, Nor send more glorious soul the skies to gain.

Tossed in a sea of doubts and fears, Love's hapless mariner, I sail, Where no inviting port appears, To screen me from the stormy gale.

II.

At distance viewed, a cheering star Conducts me through the swelling tide; A brighter luminary, far, Than Palinurus o'er descried.

III.

My soul, attracted by its blaze, Still follows where it points the way, And while attentively I gaze, Considers not how far I stray.

IV.

But female pride, reserved and shy, Like clouds that deepen on the day, Oft shroud it from my longing eye, When most I need the genial ray.

O lovely star, so pure and bright! Whose splendor feeds my vital fire, The moment thou deny'st thy light, Thy lost adorer will expire!

SONG.

Unconquered hope, thou bane of fear, And last deserter of the brave, Thou soothing ease of mortal care, Thou traveller beyond the grave; Thou soul of patience, airy food, Bold warrant of a distant good, Reviving cordial, kind decoy; Though fortune frowns and friends depart, Though Silvia flies me, flattering joy, Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart.

No slave, to lazy ease resigned, E'er triumphed over noble foes; The monarch fortune most is kind To him who bravely dares oppose. They say, Love rates his blessing high, But who would prize an easy joy? My scornful fair then I'll pursue, Though the coy beauty still denies; I grovel now on earth, 'tis true, But, raised by her, the humble slave may rise.

Might overcomes.

Him to whom God giveth may St. Peter bless.

Diligence is the mother of success, and in many important causes experience hath shown that the assiduity of the solicitor hath brought a very doubtful suit to a very fortunate issue; but the truth of this maxim is nowhere more evinced than in war, where activity and despatch anticipate the designs of the enemy, and obtain the victory before he has time to put himself in a posture of defence.

The common adage that delays are dangerous acts as spurs upon the resolution.

There are more tricks in the town than are dreamt of.

Virtue is always more persecuted by the wicked than beloved by the righteous.

Virtue is so powerful that of herself she will, in spite of all the necromancy possessed by the first inventor, Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every severe trial, and shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the heavens.

Fables should not be composed to outrage the understanding; but by making the wonderful appear possible, and creating in the mind a pleasing interest, they may both surprise and entertain; which cannot be effected where no regard is paid to probability. I have never yet found a regular, well-connected fable in any of our books of chivalry--they are all inconsistent and monstrous; the style is generally bad; and they abound with incredible exploits, lascivious amours, absurd sentiment, and miraculous adventures; in short, they should be banished every Christian country.

Just are virtue's fears where envy domineers.

Bounty will not stay where niggards bear the sway.

Fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and those who were yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom to-day.

Every one is the son of his own works.

The mind receives pleasure from the beauty and consistency of what is presented to the imagination, not from that which is incongruous and unnatural.

Fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles truth, and agreeable in proportion to the probability it bears and the doubtful credit which it inspires. Wherefore, all such fables ought to be suited to the understanding of those who read them, and written so as that, by softening impossibilities, smoothing what is rough, and keeping the mind in suspense, they may surprise, agreeably perplex, and entertain, creating equal admiration and delight; and these never can be excited by authors who forsake probability and imitation, in which the perfection of writing consists.