GHOST.

What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps and points to yonder glade?
To the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady.

A. POPE.

What gentle ghost, besprent with April dew,
Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew?
Elegy on the Lady Jane Pawlet.

B. JONSON.

By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.
King Richard III., Act v. Sc. 3.

SHAKESPEARE.

And then it started, like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
The extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine.

Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 1.

SHAKESPEARE.

MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it; never shake

Thy gory locks at me.

LADY MAСВЕТН.

O proper stuff!

This is the very painting of your fear;

This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,

Led you to Duncan.

MACBETH. Prithee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?

The times have been,

That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,

With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,

And push us from our stools.

Avaunt! and quit my sight. Let the earth hide thee!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes,

Which thou dost glare with!

Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence !

Macbeth, Act iii. Sc. 4.

SHAKESPEARE,

GLORY.

Glory is like a circle in the water,

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself
Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to nought.

Henry VI., Pt. I. Act i. Sc. 2.

SHAKESPEARE.

Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But looked to near have neither heat nor light.

The White Devil, Act v. Sc. 1.

J. WEBSTER.

We rise in glory, as we sink in pride:

Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.

Night Thoughts, Night VIII.

DR. E. YOUNG.

The glory dies not, and the grief is past.

On the Death of Sir Walter Scott.

SIR S. BRYDGES.

GOD.

What is this mighty Breath, ye sages, say,
That, in powerful language, felt, not heard,
Instructs the fowls of heaven; and through their breast

These arts of love diffuses? What, but God?

Inspiring God! who, boundless Spirit all,
And unremitting Energy, pervades,
Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole.

The Seasons: Spring.

J. THOMSON.

The Somewhat which we name but cannot know,
Ev'n as we name a star and only see
Its quenchless flashings forth, which ever show
And ever hide him, and which are not he.

Wordsworth's Grave, I.

W. WATSON.

A Deity believed, is joy begun;
A Deity adored, is joy advanced;
A Deity beloved, is joy matured.
Each branch of piety delight inspires.

Night Thoughts, Night VIII.

DR. E. YOUNG.

Thou, my all!

My theme! my inspiration! and my crown!
My strength in age! my rise in low estate!
My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth!-my world!
My light in darkness! and my life in death!
My boast through time! bliss through eternity!

Eternity, too short to speak thy praise!

Or fathom thy profound of love to man!

Night Thoughts, Night IV.

DR. E. YOUNG.