It lies not in a single part,

But through my frame is spread;
A burning fever in my heart,
A palsy in my head.

It makes me deaf, and dumb, and blind,
And impotent and lame;
It overclouds, and fills my mind
With folly, fear, and shame.

A thousand evil thoughts intrude
Tumultuous in my breast;
Which indispose me for my food,
And rob me of my rest.

Lord, I am sick, regard my cry,
And set my spirit free:
Say, canst Thou let a sinner die,
Who longs to live to Thee?

UP from the deeps, O God, I cry to Thee!
Hear the soul's prayer, hear Thou her litany,
O Thou who sayest, 'Come, wanderer, home to me.'

Up from the deeps of sorrow, wherein lie
Dark secrets veil'd from earth's unpitying eye,
My prayers, like star-crown'd angels, Godward fly.

From the calm bosom when in quiet hour`
God's Holy Spirit reigns with largest power,
Then shall each thought in prayer's white blossom
flower.

Not from life's shallows, where the waters sleep,
A dull, low marsh, where stagnant vapours creep,
But ocean-voiced, deep calling unto deep.

As he of old, King David, call'd to Thee,

As cries the heart of poor humanity,

'Clamavi, Domine, exaudi me !'-C. S. Fenner.

815. DESERTION. Thought of

OH, say not thou art left of God, because His tokens in the sky

Thou canst not read; this earth He trod, to teach thee He was ever nigh.

That deafness might possess mine ear

To what concerns me not to hear;
That truth my tongue might always tie
From ever speaking foolishly;
That no vain thought might ever rest,

Or be conceived, in my breast;

That by each word and deed and thought, Glory may to my God be brought !—Ellwood.

821. DESIRE. Limit of

WHOLE houses, of their whole desires possest,
Are often ruin'd, at their own request.
In wars, and peace, things hurtful we require;
When made obnoxious to our own desire.
With laurels some have fatally been crown'd';

Some in the depth of eloquence were drown'd.

What then remains? Are we deprived of will, Must we not wish, for fear of wishing ill? Receive my counsel, and securely move; Intrust thy fortune to the Powers above. Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant What their unerring wisdom sees thee want: In goodness as in greatness they excel; Ah that we loved ourselves but half so well! Juvenal, tr. by John Dryden.

825. DESIRE. Quality of

THINK, and be careful what thou art within;
For there is sin in the desire of sin :
Think, and be thankful, in a different case;
For there is grace in the desire of grace.-Byron.

826. DESOLATION. Social

UNHAPPY he! who from the first of joys,
Society, cut off, is left alone

Amid this world of death. Day after day,
Sad on the jutting eminence he sits,
And views the main that ever toils below;
Still fondly forming in the farthest verge,
Where the round ether mixes with the wave,
Ships, dim discover'd, dropping from the clouds:
At evening, to the setting sun he turns

A mournful eye, and down his dying heart
Sinks helpless.-Thomson.

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.-Longfellow.

827. DESPAIR. Cry of

'TIS time this heart should be unmoved
Since others it has ceased to move;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruit of love are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze;

A funeral pile.

The hope, the fears, the jealous care,
Th' exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not here-it is not here-
Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now,
Where glory seals the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake! not Greece-she is awake!
Awake, my spirit,-think through whom
My life-blood tastes its parent lake-
And then strike home!

I tread reviving passions down,

Unworthy Manhood-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret thy youth,-why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here-up to the field; and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best.
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.—Byron.

828. DESPAIR: drives to desperation.

I AM one, my liege,

Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed, that I am reckless what

I do to spite the world.-Shakespeare.

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,
Farewell remorse; all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good.- Milton.

Some whose meaning hath at first been fair Grow knaves by use, and rebels by despair. Roscommon.

Consider how the desperate fight ;Despair strikes wild,-but often fatal too,— And in the mad encounter wins success.

Havard.

Be it what it may, or bliss or torment, Annihilation, dark, and endless rest, Or some dread thing, man's wildest range of thought Hath never yet conceived, that change I'll dare Which makes me anything but what I am.

Joanna Baillie.

Loud sung the wind above; and doubly loud
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ;
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar,
To him more genial than the midnight star:
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain,
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain.
He raised his iron hand to heaven, and pray'd
One pitying flash to mar the form it made:
His steel and impious prayer attract alike—
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike;
Its peal wax'd fainter-ceased--he felt alone,
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan.
Byron.

829. DESPAIR. Energy of

HE hangs upon me like a dead man's grasp On the wreck'd swimmer's neck.

Joanna Baillie.

830. DESPAIR. Hopeless

FOR now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea;

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.

Shakespeare.

Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
Milton.
Full many a storm on this grey head has beat;
And now, on my high station do I stand,
Like the tired watchman in his rocked tower,
Who looketh for the hour of his release.
I'm sick of worldly broils, and fain would rest
With those who war no more.-Joanna Baillie.
To be thus-

Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines,
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,
Which but supplies a feeling to decay-
And to be thus,-eternally but thus,

Having been otherwise! now furrow'd o'er

With wrinkles plough'd by moments, not by years:
And hours-all tortured into ages-hours
Which I outlive! ye toppling crags of ice!
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!
I hear ye momently above, beneath,
Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,
And only fall on things that still would live.

I have no dread,

Byron.

And feel the curse to have no natural fear,
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes,
Or lurking love of something on the earth.-Byron.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless :-
That only men incredulous of despair,

Half taught in anguish, through the midnight air,
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach.-E. B. Browning.

831. DESPAIR. Religious

SOME deluded minds,

Harrow'd by penal terrors, in the gulf

Of black despair are whelm'd. No ray of hope
Dispels the involving gloom; a Deity,

With all the thunder of dread vengeance 'round him,
Is ever present to their tortured thoughts.-Hayes.

Sigh'st to behold some idol overthrown, And from the shade of thy domestic bower Some green branch gone, some bird of promise flown:

God chastens but to prove thy faithfulness,

And in thy weakness He will be thy stay; Trust and deserve, and He will soothe and bless ; The darkest hour is on the verge of day. Despair not, man, however low thy state,

Nor scorn small blessings that around thee fall; Learn to disdain the impious creed of fate,

And own the Providence that governs all. If thou art baffled in thy earnest will,

Thy conscience clear, thy reason not astray, Be this thy faith and consolation still,The darkest hour is on the verge of day. P. Prince.

834. DESPONDENCY. Avoid

TRIP lightly over trouble,

Trip lightly over wrong; We only make grief double

By dwelling on it long.