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top of the high bank, and then begins the trouble. Men and boys shout, dogs bark, but the timid creatures are slow to enter the water. Often the shepherd loses patience, and, seizing some of the sheep, throws them in. This encourages the others. In one continuous rush they plunge with a splash into the river, and struggle breathless to the other side. The process is repeated till the fleeces are thoroughly soaked and washed clean. The clear pool has become filthy and the trout have darted away. Then the sheep, weighed down with their dripping wool, move slowly up to the breezy hill-top.

4. Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness-to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forgo his mortal nature.

KEATS, Sonnets.

The full year has four seasons, and man has four periods in his mental development. The first period may be called his spring-time, when his mind is fresh and vigorous. His fancy is alert and clear, and can easily grasp all that is beautiful. In the next period-his summer-he is content with the sweet thoughts he already possesses, and on them he loves to meditate at his ease. His meditations carry him far, sometimes up to heaven. Next comes his autumn, when like a bird with folded wings he rests in some sheltered nook. Idly he gazes on the floating mist and no longer seeks to discover what it conceals. Things of beauty, too, he will let pass unheeded as though they were common and familiar-familiar as the brook that glides by his door. Last of all, he has his winter, otherwise he would be a god, not a man. And like the winter of the year, the winter of man's mind is dull and sombre.

5.

Give thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware

Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,

Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet.

Be not too ready to utter your thoughts, and do not execute any wild, unsuitable idea. Be affable to everybody; but avoid the familiarity that breeds contempt. Bind to your heart by the strongest ties the friends whom you have tried and found faithful. As for recent acquaintances, do not make your palm callous by shaking each of them by the hand. Be not quarrelsome; but if a quarrel is forced upon you, quit yourself manfully so that your opponent may avoid you. Hear what everyone has to say; but tell your own secrets to few. Listen to each man's opinion; but be in no hurry to express your own. Dress as expensively as you can afford, but not fantastically: in other words, let your dress be rich, not gaudy; for a man's character is often shown by his clothes. Be neither a borrower nor a lender. If you lend money to a friend and do not receive it back, you lose both money and friend. If you borrow, you become yourself less careful in managing your possessions. But most important of all-be true to yourself. Then, as surely as the night comes after the day, it follows that you cannot be false to any man.

6.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;
So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,

Lets in new light through chinks that time hath made;
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home;

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view

That stand upon the threshold of the new.

WALLER.

When the wind ceases to blow, the sea becomes quiet.__ So it is with us when the gusts of passion are past, we are calm. Formerly we boasted of the things we then possessed-fleeting things, doomed to pass away: now we know how vain was our boasting. In youth we love those things so passionately that we are blind to their hollowness-the hollowness which age clearly perceives. The soul in the body has the same experience as the dweller in an old hut. Worn with time and battered by storms, the cottage walls gape with many a chink, and let in more and more of the daylight. The weakness of the body is a source of strength to the soul; and the nearer we are to the other world, the wiser we grow. Those who are about to cross the bourne between time and eternity, look, as it were, back to the world they are leaving and forward to the world they are entering.

7.

Thick lay the dust, uncomfortably white,

In glaring mimicry of Arab sand.

The woods and mountains slept in hazy light;
The meadows looked athirst and tawny tanned;
The little rills had left their channels bare,
With scarce a pool to witness what they were;
And the shrunk river gleamed 'mid oozy stones
That stared like any famished giant's bones.
Sudden the hills grew black, and hot as stove
The air beneath; it was a toil to be.
There was a growling as of angry Jove
Provoked by Juno's prying jealousy;

A flash-a crash-the firmament was split,
And down it came in drops-the smallest fit
To drown a bee in fox-glove bell concealed :
Joy filled the brook, and comfort cheered the field.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

The

The dust lay thick and disagreeably white: it seemed indeed to mimic the glaring sands of Arabia. A hazy light enveloped wood and hill. The meadows were very dry and burnt brown. streamlets had disappeared and left their channels quite bare, with hardly one pool remaining. The river had shrunk, and now trickled a shining ribbon amid slime-covered stones, which stuck out like bones through the skin of a famished giant. Suddenly a darkness came over the hills, and low down the air grew stifling. Even existence was a heavy burden. A distant growling was heard: the men of old would have said that Juno's prying jealousy had provoked Jove's anger. The lightning flashed: the thunder pealed. The clouds burst, and down fell the rain. The smallest drop was large enough to drown any bee that had sought shelter in the bell of a fox-glove The brooks ran brimming with dancing streams of water; and the meadows were refreshed with the welcome rain.

8.

Of these the false Achitophel was first,
A name to all succeeding ages curst;
For close designs and crooked counsels fit,
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,
Restless, unfixed in principles and place,
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay,

And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity,

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high,
He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit,
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide;

Else, why should he, with wealth and honour blest,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please,
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?

DRYDEN, Absalom and Achitophel.

The treacherous Shaftesbury headed the faction-Shaftesbury, whose name has been hateful to succeeding generations. None was so well fitted as he for secret plans and intrigues. He was bold, sagacious, and passionate in temper. He was inconstant, always changing his principles and his place. When in power, he was dissatisfied; when out of favour, he could not endure his disgrace. His soul in her fiery energy overtasked his pigmy body and wore it out. Like a daring pilot in the midst of a wild storm, he revelled in the greatest dangers, and for very joy ran to meet the gale. But in times of peace and quiet, he was an unsafe guide; for he would steer close to the dangerous sands, merely to show how cleverly he could keep the vessel off. Surely genius and insanity are nearly related, separated only by the thinnest of partitions. If that is not the case, why should he, a man of wealth and distinction, refuse in his old age to take much needed rest? Why should he engage in activities which must have been a pain rather than a pleasure to his physical frame? With so little time to live, why should he waste his leisure so prodigally?

9.

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by;
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know:
'Tis man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past misfortune's brow
Soft reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;

While hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lower
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See a kindred grief pursue;
Behind the steps that misery treads
Approaching comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

GRAY, Odes.

It seems but as yesterday that gloomy winter was here with its whirling snows, when the birds were silent and the cattle stood with drooping heads. Now the birds are singing rapturously, the cattle are gambolling with delight; for they forget the past and do not anticipate the future. Man alone remembers bygone joys and foresees happiness to come. When we calmly reflect on a past sorrow, we may discover in it some consolation, and some beauty; tinged with melancholy it is true, but yet beauty. Our spirit of hopefulness makes us believe, when we are enjoying some time of special happiness, that this will be prolonged, and, when our weary life is shrouded in darkness, that cheering light will yet shine on our path, as the golden dawn breaks at last after the blackest midnight. Our pleasures are always followed by kindred griefs, while days of misery are succeeded by days of comfort. And in truth, happiness is brighter and more perfect after the discipline of darkness and woe. Though opponents, joy and sorrow may be subtly blended and are essential if our life is to be strong and harmonious.

EXERCISES

LXI. Passages to be turned into prose.

I.

I saw the woods and fields at close of day
A variegated show; the meadows green,

Though faded; and the lands where lately waved
The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,
Upturned so lately by the forceful share:
I saw far off the weedy fallows smile
With verdure not unprofitable, grazed
By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each
His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves

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