Mark where his carnage and his conquest cease!
He makes a solitude, and calls it--peace!
_The Bride of Abydos, Canto II_. LORD BYRON.

Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,
And takes away the use of it; and my sword.
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn.
_A New Way to Pay Old Debts, Act v. Sc. 1_. P. MASSINGER.

Ez fer war, I call it murder,--
There you hev it plain an' flat;
I don't want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer that.
_The Biglow Papers, First Series, No. I_. J.R. LOWELL.

WATERS.

Water is the mother of the vine,
The nurse and fountain of fecundity.
The adorner and refresher of the world.
_The Dionysia_. C. MACKAY.

Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famished boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.
_Don Juan, Canto II_. LORD BYRON.

Water its living strength first shows,
When obstacles its course oppose.
_God, Soul, and World_. J.W. GOETHE.

The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with the enamelled stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage.
_Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act_ ii. _Sc_. 7. SHAKESPEARE.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrewn,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave:
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
_The Minstrel, Book II_. J. BEATTIE.

Along thy wild and willowed shore;
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill,
All, all is peaceful, all is still.
_Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto IV_. SIR W. SCOTT.

With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks.
_The Story of Rimini_. L. HUNT.

The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below!
_Gertrude, Pt. III_. T. CAMPBELL.

Thou hastenest down between the hills to meet me at the road,
The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode
Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height.
Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with light.
_Friend Brook_. LUCY LARCOM.

Brook! whose society the poet seeks,
Intent his wasted spi