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And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

Even at the sound himself had made. Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire

In lightnings own'd his secret stings ; In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept, with hurried hands, the strings. With woeful measures, wan Despair

Low sullen sounds—his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ;

'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure !

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song.

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smild, and wav'd her golden And longer had she sung—but, with a frown, [hair.

Revenge impatient rose. He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ;

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe:

And ever and anori, he beat

The doubling drum, with furious heat. And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien; While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from

his head,

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;

Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, callid on
With face uprais'd, as one inspir'd,

[Hate.

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Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;
And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound :
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure

stole; Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay

Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing-
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, Oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulders flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung; The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Satyrs, and sylvan Boys, were seen, [Queen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green :
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear ;
And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;

But, soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,

Amid the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing ;
While, as the flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love fram’d with mirth a gay fantastie round

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

Collins.

EXTRACTS IN BLANK VERSE.

Filial Recollections.

Yer feeling present evils, while the past
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revoked,
That we might try the ground again, where once
Through inexperience as we now perceive,
We miss'd that happiness we might have found !
Some friend is gone, perhaps, his son's best friend,
A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and mustering all its force,
Was but the graver countenance of love ;
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,
And utter now and then an awful voice,
But had a blessing in its darkest frown,
Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.
We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured
By every gilded folly, we renounced
His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent
That converse, which we now in vain regret.
How gladly would the man recall to life
The boy's neglected sire ! a mother, too,
That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed
The playful humour; could now endure
Himself grown sober in the vale of tears,

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• A parenthesis, which we have marked and inclosed in this place by a dash.

And feel a parent's presence no restraint ;
But not to understand a treasure's worth,
Till time has stolen away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.

Cowper.

The severity of a kind father, likened to the lowering clouds of spring, exhibiting a disagreeable and frowning, aspect, and carrying along with them the greatest blessing, and the most desirable nourishment, is, in our opinion, a very appropriate and beautiful comparison.

The Good Preacher and the Clerical Coxcomb.

Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own,
Paul should himself direct me; I would trace
His master-strokes, and draw from his design.
I would express him simple, grave, sincere ;
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain;
And plain in manner. Decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture. Much impress'd
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds
May feel it too. Affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Behold the picture !—Is it like?-Like whom ?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then-skip down again? pronounce a text,
Cry, hem! and, reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene?

In man or woman-but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers,
And serves the altar-in my soul I loathe
All affectation : 'tis my perfect scorn :
Object of my implacable disgust.
What !-wili a man play tricks-- will he indulge

A silly fond conceit of his fair form
And just proportion, fashionable mien
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the diamond on his lily hand;
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,
When I am hungry for the bread of life?
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames
His noble office, and, instead of trath,
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock.
Therefore, avaunt! all attitude and stare,
And start theatric, practis'd at the glass!
I seek divine simplicity in him
Who handles things divine; and all beside,
Though learn’d with labour, and though much admir'd
By curious eyes and judgments ill-inform'd,
To me is odious.

Cowper,

Satan addressing Beelzebub.

If thou beest he-but O, how fallen ! how chang'd From him, who, in the happy realms of light, Cloth’d with transcendent brightness did outshine Myriads, though bright !--if he, whom mutual league, United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard—in the glorious enterprise Join'd with me once-now misery hath join'd In equal ruin-into what pit thou seest From what height fallen, so much the stronger prov'd He with his thunder: and till then who knew The force of those dire arms ? Yet not for those, Nor what the potent Victor in his rage Can else inflict, do I repent or change, Though chang'd in outward lustre, that fix'd mind, And high disdain from sense of injur'd merit, That with the Mightiest rais'd me to contend ; And to the fierce contention brought along Innumerable force of spirits arm’d,

A a

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