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House of God, and the right managing of all the occasions and affairs thereof.
In the handling of all these particulars, so full of difficulty and of obscurity, I am not such a stranger at home, but that I am easily sensible of the weight of the matter and mine own weaknesse: and therefore I can professe in a word of truth, that against mine own inclination and affection, I was haled by importunity to this so hard a task, to kindle my rush candle, to joyn with the light of others, at least to occasion them to set up their lamps.
Now he that is the way, the truth, and the life, pave out all the waies of his people, and make their paths plain before them: Lead us all into that truth, which will lead us unto eternall life: bring us once unto that impotency and impossibility, that we can do nothing against the truth, but for it, that so our Congregations, may not only be stiled, as Ezekiels temple, but be really what was prophesied the Churches should be, in these last daies, Jehovah Shammah. In the Armes of his everlasting mercy I leave thee, but never cease to wish,
THOMAS HOOKER JOSEPH HOPKINSON.
HOPKINSON, JOSEPH, an American jurist, son of Francis Hopkinson; born at Philadelphia, November 12, 1770; died there, January 15, 1842. He graduated at the University of Pennsylvania, studied and practised law in Philadelphia. From 1815 to 1819 he was a member of the United States House of Representatives. In 1828 he was appointed Judge of the United States Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. As an author he is known almost solely by his national song, “Hail Columbia," written in 1798 for the benefit of an actor named Fox.
heroes! heaven-born band !
Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause.
Let Independence be your boast,
Firm, united, let us be,
Peace and safety we shall find.
Let no rude foe with impious hand,
Let no rude foe with impious hand,
While offering peace sincere and just
Firm, united, let us be, etc,
Sound, sound the trump of Fame !
Ring through the world with loud applause,
Ring through the world with loud applause.
With equal skill, with steady power;
Firm, united, let us be, etc.
Behold the chief who now commands,
The rock on which the storm will beat,
The rock on which the storm will beat;
When hope was sinking in dismay,
Firm, united, let us be, etc.
QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS HORACE.
HORACE (QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS), a great Roman lyric poet; born at Venusia, about two hundred miles southwest of Rome, in 65 B. C.; died at Rome in 8 B.C. When he was about twelve bis father took him to Rome. At about eighteen Horace was sent by his father to Athens to complete his education. For some four years he devoted himself to the study of philosophy. His first productions were lampoons, most of which he succeeded in suppressing. But one poem, written in 40 B. C., when he was in his twenty-fourth year, and addressed to “ The Roman People,” is pitched on a loftier key than anything else which he ever wrote. Horace's books soon began to sell. He was enabled to get an appointment to some official position, the emoluments of which were sufficient to maintain him. He also made the acquaintance of the rising men of letters, among whom were Varius and Virgil. These two took him to the house of the wealthy Mæcenas, whose acquaintanceship ripened into a lifelong friendship. About four years after their first acquaintance, when Horace was about thirtytwo, the munificent Mæcenas presented him with a country estate, as he had desiderated. This estate, which he designates as his “Sabine farm,” was situated on high land about thirty miles from Rome. Here Horace built a inodest villa, the site of which is still shown. The health of Horace was always delicate, and he began to age rapidly. At forty-four his black hair had turned to gray. The longest and one of the latest of the poems of Horace is the Epistle to the Pisos, generally known as the “Ars Poetica," soon after the publication of which Mæcenas died at the age of about sixty-five. Before the year ended Horace followed him. He was buried on the slope of the Esquiline, hard by the tomb of his friend Mæcenas. Horace's writings, in the order of their production, are: The “Satires,” or as the poet himself called them, “Talks” (Sermones), eighteen in number, and written in hexameter verse; “Epodes,” a collection of lyric poems in iambic and composite metres; “ Odes,” his most exquisite works, and the delight of scholars ever since they were written; “Epistles,” in hexameter verse, brilliant in wit, perfect in melody, replete with workaday wisdom, - among them is the “ Epistle to the Pisos," or u The Art of Poetry.”
TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. ANOTHER age in civil wars will soon be spent and worn, And by her native strength our Rome be wrecked and overborne : That Rome the Marcians could not crush, who border on the lands, Nor the shock of threatening Porsena with his Etruscan bands, Nor Capua's strength that rivalled ours, nor Spartacus the stern, Nor the faithless Allobrogian, who still for change doth yearn. Ay, what Germania's blue-eyed youth quelled not with ruthless sword, Nor Hannibal, by our great sires detested and abhorred, We shall destroy with ruthless hands imbued in brothers' gore, And wild beasts of the wood shall range our native land once more. A foreign foe, alas! shall tread the City's ashes down, And bis horse's ringing hoofs shall smite her places of renown; And the bones of great Quirinius, now religiously enshrined, Shall be flung by sacrilegious hands to the sunshine and the wind. And if ye all from ills so dire ask how yourselves to free, Or such at least as would not hold your lives unworthily – No better counsel I can urge than that which erst inspired The stout Phocæans when from their doomed city they retired, Their fields, their household gods, their shrines surrendering as a
prey To the wild boar and ravening wolf : so we, in our dismay, Where'er our wandering steps may chance to carry us should go, Or where'er across the sea the fitful winds may blow. How think ye then? If better course none offer, why should we Not seize the happy auspices, and boldly put to sea ? The circling ocean waits us : then away, where Nature smiles, To those fair lands, those blissful lands, the rich and happy isles, Where Ceres year by year crowns all the untilled land with sheaves, And the vine with purple clusters droops, unpruned of all her
leaves; Where the olive buds and burgeons, to its promise ne'er untrue, And the russet fig adorns the trees that graffshoot never knew; Where honey from the hollow oaks doth ooze, and crystal rills Come dancing down with tinkling feet from the sky-dividing
hills ? — There to the pails the she-goats come, without a master's word, And home with udders brimming broad returns the friendly herd; There round the fold no surly bear its midnight prowl doth make, Nor teems the rank and heaving soil with the adder and the snake; There no contagion smites the flocks, nor blight of any star, With fury of remorseless heat, the sweltering herds doth mar, Nor are the swelling seeds burnt irr within the thirsty clods —