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RUMOUR-RURAL LIFE, RETREAT, SCENERY, ETC.

RUMOUR-see News.

Rumour's a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it.

Sh. Hen. IV. Introduction II.

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,
The numbers of the fear'd.

Sh. Oth. 111. 1.

The flying rumours gather'd as they roll'd,
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;
And all who told it added something new,
And all who heard it made enlargements too;
In ev'ry ear it spread, on ev'ry tongue it grew.
Thus flying east and west, and north and south,
News travell'd with increase from mouth to mouth.

Pope, Temple of Fame, 465. RURAL LIFE, RETREAT, SCENERY, &c.- -see Country Life, Evening, Home, Retirement.

Happy the man, whom bounteous gods allow
With his own hands paternal grounds to plough.

Cowley, Hor. Ode 11. 5.

She went to plain work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and prayers three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bolca,

To muse, and spill her solitary tea,

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;

Up to her godly garret after seven,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.

Of men

The happiest he! who far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired,

Pope, Epistle 5.

Drinks the pure pleasures of a rural life. Thomson, Aut. 1233.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,

When ev'ry rood of ground maintain'd its man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more
His best companions, innocence and health,

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. Goldsmith, Des. Vil.

RURAL LIFE, RETREAT, ETC.-RUS IN URBE.

RURAL LIFE, RETREAT, SCENERY, &c.-continued.
Not rural sights alone, but rural sounds
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds,

That sweep the skirts of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike

The dash of ocean on his winding shore,

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And lull the spirit while they fill the mind. Cowper, Task, 1. 181.
Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease,

Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please;
Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,
Go look within, and ask if peace be there;
If peace be his-that drooping weary sire,
Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire;
Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand
Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand!
O for a seat in some poetic nook,
Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook.

RUS IN URBE.

Crabbe, Village, 1. 173.

Leigh Hunt, Politics and Poetice.

He that deems his leisure well bestow'd
In contemplations of a turnpike road,
Is occupied as well, employs his hours
As wisely, and as much improves his powers,
As he that slumbers in pavilions graced
With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste.

Cowper, Retirement, 505.

Suburban villas, highway-side retreats, That dread th' encroachment of our growing streets, Tight boxes neatly sash'd, and in a blaze With all a July sun's collected rays, Delight the citizen, who gasping there Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. O sweet retirement, who would baulk the thought That could afford retirement, or could not? 'Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight,The second milestone fronts the garden gate; A step if fair, and if a shower approach You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach, There prison'd in a parlour snug and small, Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall, The man of business and his friends compress'd, Forget their labours, and yet find no rest; But still 'tis rural,-trees are to be seen From every window, and the fields are green. Cowper, Retirement, 481.

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SABBATARIANS.

SABBATARIANS-SABBATH.

What! shut the garden! lock the latticed gate:
Refuse the shilling and the Fellow's ticket!"
And hang a wooden notice up to state,
"On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!"
The birds, the beasts, and all the reptile race
Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!
Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Thos. Hood, (an open Question.)
What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil;
Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature,
Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,
And catch a glimpse of "Animated Nature."
Better it were if, in his best of suits,
The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,
Should spend a leisure hour among the brutes,
Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

SABBATH.

Thos. Hood, Ib.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
On other days the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread, lonely-the ground

Both seat and board-screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighb'ring hedge or tree;

But on this day, embosom'd in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves. Grahame, Sab.40.

The seventh day this; the jubilee of man:

London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer:

Then the spruce citizen, wash'd artisan,

And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:

The coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.

Byron, Ch. H. 1. 69.

The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard,
Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
Of one who from the far-off hills proclaims
Tidings of good to Zion.

The Sabbath bell,

That over wood, and wild, and mountain-dell

Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy

Charles Lamb.

With sounds, most musical, most melancholy. Rogers, H. Life.

SABBATH SAILING, SAILORS.

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SABBATH-continued.

Yet every day in seven, at least,
One bright republic shall be known ;-
Man's world awhile hath surely ceas'd,
When God proclaims His own!

poor,

Six days may rank divide the
O Dives! from thy banquet-hall-
The seventh, the Father opes the door,
And holds His feast for all!

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;

The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days stern labour shuts the poor
From nature's careless banquet hall;
The seventh, an Angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!

I am glad when the sabbath steals quietly in,

Bulwer Lytton.

Bulwer Lytton.

Of all days the chief lustre, the "pearl of the seven;"

A season when man seems to pause in his sin,

A time, rightly used, giving glimpses of heaven. J. C. Prince. SACRAMENT-see Transubstantiation.

SAILING, SAILORS-see Ocean, Sea, Shipwreck.
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are staid for.

Sh. Ham. 1. 3.

What though the sea be calm ? trust to the shore,
Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc'd before.
Herrick. Aph. 306.

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.
Byron, Ch. H. 11. 17,
y!
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides
Or school-boy midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrili pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.
Byron, Ch. H. 11. 18.

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SAILING, SAILORS-SAINT PETER.

SAILING, SAILORS——continued.

How can I bear to think on all
The dangers thou must brave?
My fears will deem each gale a storm,
While thou art on the wave.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast.

L. E. Landon.

Allan Cunningham, Song.

O Thou, who in thy hand dost hold
The winds or waves that wake or sleep,
Thy tender arms of mercy fold
Around the seamen on the deep.

H. F. Gould (Am.)

There's one whose fearless courage yet has never failed in fight;

Who guards with zeal our country's weal, our freedom, and our right;

But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow; Cry "Quarter!" and that arm will be the first to spare its foe. He recks not though proud glory's shout may be the knell of death;

The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! In peace, my boys,

or war,

Here's to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English Tar." Eliza Cook, English Tar.

I love the sailor;-his eventful life

His generous spirit-his contempt of danger

His firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife ;-
And, though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger,

God grant he make that port, when life is o'er,

Where storms are hush'd, and billows break no more! Colton. A sailor should be every inch

All as one as a part of his ship.

Dibdin, quoted to H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh by the
City Chamberlain, June 7, 1866.

SAINT PETER.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era" eighty-eight "
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And 66
a pull all together," as they say
At sea-which drew most souls another way.

Byron, Vision of Judgment, 1.