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In notes by distance made more sweet.
Line 68.
In hollow murmurs died away.
Line 95.
O Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
_Eclogue_ 1. Line 5.
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; 'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.
_Ode on the Death of Thomson_.
In yonder grave a Druid lies.
MARK AKENSIDE.
1721-1770.
_Epistle to Curio_.
The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.
NATHANIEL COTTON.
1721-1788.
_The Fireside_. St. 3.
If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies; And they are fools who roam: The world has nothing to bestow; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut--our home.
St. 13.
Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; Its checkered paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread.
JOHN HOME.
1722-1808.
_Douglas_. Act i. Sc. 1.
In the first days Of my distracting grief, I found myself As women wish to be who love their lords.
Act ii. Sc. 1.
My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills My father fed his flocks.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
1728-1774.
THE TRAVELLER.
Line 1.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.
Line 7.
Where er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee.
Line 22.
And learn the luxury of doing good.
