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He who requires
From us no other service than to keep
This one, this easy charge, of all the trees
In Paradise that bear delicious fruit
So various, not to taste this only tree
Of knowledge, planted by the tree of life.
When often urged, unwilling to be great,
Your country calls you from your loved retreat,
And sends to senates charged with common care,
Which none more shuns, and none can better bear.
No more accuse thy pen, but charge the crime
On native sloth, and negligence of time.
Dryden. Perverse mankind! whose wills, created free, Charge all their woes on absolute decree; All to the dooming gods their guilt translate, And follies are miscalled the crimes of fate.
A hard division, when the harmless sheep
Must leave their lambs to hungry wolves in charge.
They should beware, who charges lay in love,
On solid grounds they make them, for there are hearts
So proudly fond, that, wring them hard, they 'll break
Or ever they will stoop to right themselves.
CHARITY. SHE was a woman in her freshest age, Of wondrous beauty, and of bountie rare, With goodly grace and comely personage, That was on earth not easy to compare; Full of great love, but Cupid's wanton snare As hell she hated, chaste in work and will; Her neck and breasts were ever open bare, That aye thereof her babes might suck their fill; The rest was all in yellow robes arraied still.
A multitude of babes about her hung,
Playing their sports, that joy'd her to behold,
Whom still she fed, whilst they were weak and young,
But thrust them forth still, as they waxed old:
And on her head she wore a tire of gold,
Adorned with gemmes and owches wondrous fair,
Whose passing price uneath was to be told;
And by her side there sate a gentle pair.
Of turtle doves, she sitting in an ivory chaire.
Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity!-
- Urge neither charity nor shame to me;
Uncharitably with me have you dealt. Shakspere.
He hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day for melting charity. Shakspere.
Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure,
Relations dear, and alĩ the charities
Of father, son, and brother first were known.
Deeds to thy knowledge answerable; add faith,
And virtue, patience, temperance; add love
By name to come called "charity, the soul
Of all the rest.
Nothing truly can be termed mine own
But what I make mine own by using well.
Those deeds of charity which we have done
Shall stay for ever with us: and that wealth
Which we have so bestowed, we only keep:
The other is not ours.
’Mongst all your virtues
I see not charity written, which some call
The first-born of religion; and I wonder
I cannot see it in yours. Believe it, sir,
There is no virtue can be sooner missed,
Or later welcomed; it begins the rest,
And sets them all in order.
Finds in the act reward, and needs no trumpet
In the receiver.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
Let shining charity adorn your zeal,
The noblest impulse generous minds can feel.
In faith and hope the world will disagree,
But all mankind's concerned in charity;
All must be false, that thwart this one great end;
And all of God, that bless mankind, or mend.
Self-love thus pushed to social,—to divine,
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine.
Is this too little for the boundless heart!
Extend it—let thy enemies have part,
Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense,
In one close system of benevolence:
Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree,
And height of bliss but height of charity. Pope.
Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Knows with just reins and gentle hand, to guide
Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride:
Not soon provoked, she easily forgives,
And much she suffers, as she much believes :
Soft peace she brings, wherever she arrives,
She builds our quiet as she forms our lives;
Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even,
And opens in each heart a little heaven.
When constant faith and holy hope shall die,
One lost in certainty, and one in joy,
Then, thou more happy power, fair Charity!
Triumphant sister! greatest of the three!
Thy office and thy nature still the same,
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame,
Shall stand before the host of Heaven confest,
blessing, and for ever blest.
For true charity, Though ne'er so secret, finds a just reward.
It was sufficient that his wants were known;
True charity makes others' wants their own.
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!
To shock us more, solicit it in vain!
True charity, a plant divinely nursed,
Fed by the love by which it rose at first,
Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene,
Storms but enliven its unfading green;
Exuberant is the shadow it supplies,
Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies.
Did charity prevail, the press would prove
A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
The dews come down unseen at eventide,
And silently their bounties shed, to teach
Mankind unostentatious charity.
Oh, Charity! our helpless nature's pride,
Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside,
Is there in morning's breath, or the sweet gale
That steals o'er the tired pilgrim of the vale,
Cheering with fragrance fresh his wearied frame,
Aught like the influence of thy holy flame?
Is aught in all the beauties that adorn
The azure heaven, or purple lights of morn-
Is aught so fair in evening's lingering gleam,
As from thine eye the meek, but pensive beam,
That falls like saddest moonlight on the hill
And distant woods, when the wide world is still?
Thine are the ample views that, unconfined,
Stretch to the utmost walks of human kind;
Thine is the spirit, that, with widest plan,
Brother to brother binds, and man to man.
William Lisle Bowles.
The ear, inclined to every voice of grief,
The hand that op’ed spontaneous to relief,
The heart whose impulse stayed not for the mind
To freeze, to doubt what charity enjoined,
Best spring to man's warm instinct for mankind
The New Timon.
O, rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whitens soft white hands ;
This is the best crop for thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.-J. R. Lowell.
WELL-sounding verses are the charm we use,
Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse. Roscom
No fantastic robe,
That e'er caprice invented, custom wore,
Or folly smiled on could eclipse thy charms.
Shenstone. Amoret, my lovely foe,
Tell me where thy strength does lie; Where the power that charms us so— In thy soul, or in thine eye?
The passion you pretended
Was only to obtain;
But when the charm is ended,
The charmer you disdain.
The lily's hue, the rose’s dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye,
Who but owns their magic sway,
Who but knows they all decay?
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look that rage disarms,
These are all immortal charms.