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For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span ;
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,

That first spoke peace to man.



My eye descending from the Hill,surveys
Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays :
Thames ! the most loved of all the ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity ;3
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold.4
His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring :
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers which their infants overlay,
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.s
No unexpected inundations spoil
The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil ;
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows,
First loves to do, then loves the good he does.
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,
But free and common as the sea or wind;

(1) The poem entitled “Cooper's Hill," from which this extract is made, was written in 1643. The date may account in part for the quaintness of the style.

(2) The hill-Cooper's Hill, near Windsor. (3) This idea is beautifully amplified by Cowper (see p. 80), in the lines beginning,

“The lapse of time and rivers is the same. (4) The rivers Pactolus and Hermus, in Asia Minor, were said by the ancient poets to roll down sand mingled with gold.

(5) Resumes, &c. i. e. does not first by his overflow create abundance, and then by a second inundation destroy his own creation. The figures in the last few lines display more ingenuity than taste : they are incongruous and unnecessarily multiplied.

(6) Loves to do-. e. loves to do good. The allusion here seems to be to Gen. 1. 31.

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When? he, to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying towers
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,
Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants ;
So that to us no thing, no place is strange,
While his fair bosom is the world's exchange.
Oh, could 1 flow like thee! and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme:
Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not dull;
Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full.


Once in the flight of ages past

There lived a man and who was he?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee!
Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he lived unknown;
His name hath perished from the earth ;

This truth survives alone :-
That joy and grief,4 and hope and fear,

Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear !

Oblivion hides the rest. (1) When-seems here to mean inasmuch, seeing that; and the sense of the passage to be, that the blessings of the Thames are unlimited, inasmuch as, through the agency of the ships—“his flying towers," that he sends forth laden with English produce and manufacture-he visits the world, and brings home both Indies to us, by making their produce and wealth ours.

(2) The last two lines have been much admired for the exquisite taste displayed in the choice of words. They embody, with happy brevity, the main characteristics of a finished literary style, which should be," though deep, yet clear," &c. “ Strong, without rage," means strong without the ostentatious display of strength.

(3) The lot or condition which is common to all mankind-with its hopes and fears, its pleasures and pains. (4) Joy, delight, and bliss, may be thus distinguished :Joy-is vivid

and therefore transient, pleasure.

Bliss-complete and abiding happiness.
A similar distinction holds between grief and woe:-

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall

We know that these were felt by him,

For these are felt by all.
He suffered—but his pangs are o'er;

Enjoyed—but his delights are fled;
Had friends—his friends are now no more;

And foes—his foes are dead.
He loved—but whom he loved the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
Oh! she was fair, but nought could save

Her beauty from the tomb.
The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life and light,

To him exist in vain.
He saw whatever thou hast seen ;

Encountered all that troubles thee;
He was—whatever thou hast been ;

He is—what thou shalt be.
The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye

That once their shade and glory threw,
Have left, in yonder silent sky,

No vestiges where they flew !
The annals of the human race,

Their ruins since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace


Grief-is intense and overwhelming, but brief, sorrow.

Woe-complete, absorbing, and abiding misery. Hence we may speak of “transports of joy or grief," " ecstacies of delight," "perfect bliss," "speechless woe." In the above poem,“ joy" and “grief" are correctly said to "triumph," &c., “delights" to be “filed,” but “bliss” and “woe" are less correctly employed, inasmuch as bliss properly belongs only to heaven, and woe “lies too deep for tears."

(1) Erewhilea while before—some time ago.
(2) To him-for him, as far as he is concerned.
(3) Vestige-from the Latin vestigium, a foolmark-hence track, trace.

(4) Annals, &c.-neither the written histe ry of mankind, nor the ruins they have left behind them, afford any other trace, &c.


MOUNT-mount for the hunting-with musket and spear !
Call our friends to the field for the lion is near !
Call Arendand Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor ;3
Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur.
Ride up Eildon-Cleugh, and blow loudly the bugle :
Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop and Dugal;
And George with the elephant-gun on his shoulder-
In a perilous pinch none is better or bolder.
In the gorget of the glen lie the bones of my steed,
And the hoofs of a heifer of fatherland'gt breed :
But mount, my brave boys ! if our rifles prove true,
We'll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue.
Ho! the Hottentot lads have discovered the track
To his den in the desert we'll follow him back;
But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints,
For heavy and fresh are the villain's foot-prints.
Through the rough rocky kloof into Grey Huntley-Glen,
Past the wild olive clump where the wolf has his den,
By the black eagle's rock at the foot of the fell,7
We have tracked him at length to the buffalo's well.
Now mark yonder brake where the bloodhounds are howling;
And bark that hoarse sound like the deep thunder growling;
'Tis his lair— tis his voice !—from your saddles alight;
He's at bay in the brushwood, preparing for fight.

(1) The circumstances described in this very spirited poem, came under the personal observation of the writer, Mr. Pringle, and may be read in detail in the 8th chapter of his interesting “ Narrative of a Residence in South Africa."

(2) The names in this piece are-with the exception of “the Rennies," who were Scottish friends of the author-those of Mulatto farmers, and Hottentot and Dutch servants, residing in the neighbourhood.

(3) Spoor—a Dutch word-track, the lion's track.
(4) Gorge—the throat or narrow passage at the opening of a defile.

(5) Fatherland-here means Scotland, which was the native country of the emigrants.

(6) Kloof—a Dutch word—a small valley opening into a larger one. (7) Fell—a Scandinavian word-a rocky hill.

Leave the horses behind and be still every man :
Let the Mullers and Rennies advance in the van:
Keep fast in your ranks ;- by the yell of

yon hound, The

savage, I guess, will be out with a bound. He comes the tall jungle before him loud crashing, His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing; With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth in his wrath, To challenge the foe that dare 'leaguer' his path. He couches—ay, now we'll see mischief, I dread : Quick-level your rifles—and aim at his head : Thrust forward the spears, and unsheaf every knifeSt. George! he's upon us ! Now fire, lads, for life! He's wounded--but yet he'll draw blood ere he falls-Ha! under his paw see Bezuidenhout sprawlsNow Diederik ! Christian ! right in the brain Plant each man his bullet-HURRA! he is slain! Bezuidenhout-up, man!—'tis only a scratch (You were always a scamp, and have met with your match!) What a glorious lion !—what sinews--what clawsAnd seven-feet-ten from the rump to the jaws ! His hide, with the paws and the bones of his skull, And the spoils of the leopard and buffalo bull

, We'll send to Sir Walter!2_Now, boys, let us dine, And talk of our deeds o'er a flask of old wine.



DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark background 'gainst the sky. Thither I went,
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount

(1) 'Leaguer--for beleaguer--to besiege, beset. (2) Sir Walter Scott, a friend of the author.

(3) Lonely-synonymous with alone-feeling alone, habitually without company ; alone-by one's self, actually without company. Hence we may speak of a " lonely fount," and of “ being alone."

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