Quotes
Quotes - Johnson
Let observation with extensive view
Survey mankind, from China to Peru.
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,--
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.
He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know
That life protracted is protracted woe.
An age that melts in unperceiv'd decay,
And glides in modest innocence away.
Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage.
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise!
From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,
And Swift expires, a driv'ler and a show.
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill.
Of all the griefs that harass the distrest,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest.
This mournful truth is ev'rywhere confess'd,--
Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd.
Studious to please, yet not ashamed to fail.
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new.
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
For we that live to please must please to live.
Catch, then, oh catch the transient hour;
Improve each moment as it flies!
Life's a short summer, man a flower;
He dies--alas! how soon he dies!
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
In misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.
And sure th' Eternal Master found
His single talent well employ'd.
Then with no throbs of fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
That saw the manners in the face.
Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty power and hapless love!
Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more;
Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine!
A Poet, Naturalist, and Historian,
Who left scarcely any style of writing untouched,
And touched nothing that he did not adorn.
How small of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
Still to ourselves in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find.
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
Trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay.
