R.L. STEVENSON.
Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss:
Heaven once a week:
The next world's gladness prepossest in this;
A day to seek;
Eternity in time.
_Sundays_. H. VAUGHAN.
As palmers went to hail the niched seat
At desert well, where they put off the shoon
And robe of travel, so I, a pilgrim as they,
Tired with my six-days' track, would turn aside
Out of the scorch and glare into the shade
Of Sunday-stillness.
_The Resting Place_. M.J. PRESTON.
But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! Thee I hail, the poor man's day.
_The Sabbath_. J. GRAHAME.
Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well be sure,
He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!
_Urania_.. O.W. HOLMES.
SATIRE.
Prepare for rhyme--I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_. LORD BYRON.
Satire should, like a polished razor keen,
Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen.
_To the Imitator of the first Satire of Horace. Bk. II_.
LADY M.W. MONTAGU.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run amuck and tilt at all I meet.
_Second Book of Horace_. A. POPE.
Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel,
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
_Satires: Prologue_.
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