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To sigh for ribands, if thou art so silly,
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy.
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife.
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd;
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.
Or ravish'd with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame.
If all, united, thy ambition call,
From ancient story, learn to scorn them all.
IV.—Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn.—MILTON,
THESE are thy glorious works! Parent of good!
Almighty thine this universal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair: Thyself how wond'rous, then,
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels for ye behold them, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing.. Ye in heaven!
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars! last in train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun! of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thon climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st.
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies
And ye five other wand'ring fires! that move
In mystic dance, not without song; resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements! the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with golH,
In honor to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolor'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling shower*,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines
With every plant, in sign of worship, wave.
Fountains and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds,
That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,
Hear on your wings, and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep!
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his prcase.—
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still,
To give us only good; and, if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd—
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
V-Parting of Hector and Adromache.HOMER.
HECTOR now pass'd with sad presaging heart,
To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part.
At home he sought her; but he sought in vain ;
She, with one maid, of all her menial train,
Had thence retir'd; and with her second joy,
The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy,
Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height,
Beheld the war and sicken'd at the sight:
There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore,
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.
Hector, this heard, return'd without delay;
Swift through the town he took his former way,
Through streets of palaces, and walks of state,
And met the mourner at the Scean gate.
With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair.
His blameless wife, Aetion's wealthy heir.
The nurse stood near; in whose embraces press'd,
His only %ipe hung, smiling at her breast;
Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new born star that gilds the morn.
Silent, the warrior smil'd; and pleas'd, resign'd
To tender passions, all his mighty mind.
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then, dejected spoke.
Her hosom labor'd with a boding sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.
"Too daring prince! ah! whither wilt thou run!
Ah! too forgetful of thy wife and Son !
And think'st thou not how wretched we shr.U be ?
A widow I, an helpless orphan he !
For sure, such courage length of life denies;
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain ;
Now hosts oppose thee and thou must be slain.
Oh, grant me, godsere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of heaven—an early tomb!
So shall my days in one sad tenor run,
And end with sorrows, as they first begun.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share;
Oh! prove a husband's and a parent's care.
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon wild figtree joins the wall of Troy :
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given ;
Or led by hops, or dictated from heaven.
Let others in the field their arms employ ;
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."
The chief replied—" That post shall be my care;
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground.
Attaint the lustre of my former name,
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame !
My early youth was bred to warlike pains;
My soul impels me to the martial plains.
Still foremost let me stand to guard the throne,
To save my father's honors and my own.
Yet, come it will! the day decreed by fates!
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !)
The day when thou, imperial Troy, must bend,
Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end,
And yet, no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs, defiled with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore,
As thine Andromache! Thy griefs I dread !
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led,
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes, of which so large a part was thine.
There, while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry—" Behold the mighty Hector's wife !"-
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see,
Embitters all thy woes by naming me.
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name !
May I lie Cold before that dreadful day,
Press'd with a load of monumental clay!
Thy Hector wrapp'd in everlasting sleep,
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."
Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.
The babe clung, crying, to the nurse's breast,
Scar'd with the dazzling helm, and nodding crest.
With secret pleasure, each fond parent smil'd,
And Hector hasted to relieve his child:
The glitt'ring terrors from his brows unbound,
And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground.
Then kiss'd the child; and, lifting high in air,
Thus to the gods preferr'd a parent's prayer.
"Oh thou whose glory fills th« eth"rial throne ! And all ye deathless powers! protect my son ! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown; Against his country's foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age. So when triumphant from successful torts, Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, And say, "This chief transcends his father's fame;" While pleas'd amidst the general shouts of Troy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." He spoke and fondly gazing on her charms, Restor'd the pleasing burden to her arms. Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd : The troubled pleasure, soon chastis'd with fear, She mingled with a smile a tender tear. The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd, And dry'd the falling drops; and thus pursu'd "Andromache! my soul's far better part! Why with untimely sorrow heaves thy heart! No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemn me to the silent tomb : Fix'd is the term of all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth. No force can then resist, no flight can save ; All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more—but hasten to thy task at home; There guide the spindle and direct the loom. Me, glory summons to the martial scene; The field of combat is the sphere for men : Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger, as the first in fame."
Thus having said, th' undaunted chief resumes His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That stream'd at every look; then moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulg'd her woe. There, while her tears deplor'd the godlike man, Through all her train the soft infection ran: The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, And mourn'd the living Hector as the dead
VI.—Facetious History of John GU/iin,—CoWPER,
JOHN GILPIN was a citizen
Of credit and renown;
A train band captain eke was he,
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear—
Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
Tomorrow is our wedding day,
And we shall then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.
My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride
On horseback after we."
He soon replied—" I do admire
Of woman kind but one;
And you are she my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.
I am a linendraper bold,
As all the world doth know;
And my good friend, Tom Callendep,
Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin-" That's well said;
And, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnish'd with our own,
Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ;
e'erjoy'd was he lo find,
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,
Where they did all get in ;
Six precious souls; and all agog,
To dash through thick and thin!
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were never folks so glad ;
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side,
Seiz'd fast the flowing mane,