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Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations ! that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
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,
Bear 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 valey, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still,
To give us only good; and, if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceald-
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
V.-Parting of Hector and Andromache.-HOWER.
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 Scæan gate,
With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair,
His blameless wife, Acteon's wealthy heir.
The nurse stood near; in whose embraces press'd, His only hope hung, smiling at hier breast; Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, Fair as the newborn star that gilds the morp. Silent, the warrioar sinild; and pleas’d, resign’d To tender passions, all his mighty mind. His beautious princess cast a mournful look, Hung on his hand, and then, dejected spoke. Her bosom labour'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 though not how wretched we shall 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 liosts oppose thee-and thou must be slain. Oh, grant me, gods ! ere 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 wise, thy infant, in thy danger share ; Oh! prove a husband's, and a parent's care. That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, Where yoń wild figtree joins the wall of Troy: Thrice our bold fues the fierce attack have given; Or led by lopes, 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
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 plaios.
Still foremost let me stand to guard the throne,
To save my father's honours and my own.
Yet come it will ! the day decreed by fates!
(How my heart trembles, while my tongue relatés !)
The day when thou imperial Troy, must bend,
Must see thy warriours 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 boary hairs defild with gore,
Not all my brother's 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,
Pressód 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, thé 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 smild,
And Hector hasted to relieve his child :
T'he 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' etherial throne !
And all ye deathless powers ! protect my son!
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
To guard the Trojans, lo 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 toils,
Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,
Whole hosts may hail him with deserv'd acclaim,
And say, “ This chief transcends his fathers fame;">
While pleas'd amidst the general shouts of Troy,
His mother's conscioas 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 chastiş'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 tasks 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 Gilpin.- COWPER.
JOHN GILPIN was a citizen
Of credit and renown;
A train band captain eke was he,
Of famous London towni.
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, Toin Callender,
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 brig..t and clear."
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;
Oferjoy'd was he to find,
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not alrow'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 folk so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horses side,
Seiz'd fast the flowing money And up he got in baste to ride,