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And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
For Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
Through the dear might of Him who walk'd the

waves,
Where other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure

his
oozy

locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love :
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

MILTON.

SLEEP. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how bave I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh mine eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulld with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch

90

PASTORAL CHARACTER.

A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude tempestuous surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds,
That with the burly death itself awakes :
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low,-- lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKSPERE.

PASTORAL CHARACTER.

A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board,

And a refin’d rusticity, belong

To the neat mansion, where, his flock among, The learned pastor dwells, their watchful lord. Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword; Though pride's least lurking thought appear a

wrong To human kind; though peace be on his tongue, Gentleness in his heart; can earth afford

Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free,
As when, array'd in Christ's authority,

THE RUINS OF ROME.

91

He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand,

Conjures, implores, and labours all he can For re-subjecting to Divine command

The stubborn spirit of rebellious man!

WORDS WORTH.

THE RUINS OF ROME.

'Twas there, beneath a fig-tree's umbrage broad,
Th' astonish'd swains with rev'rent awe beheld
Thee, O Quirinus, and thy brother twin,
Pressing the teat within a monster's grasp,
Sportive; while oft the gaunt and rugged wolf
Turn'd her stretch'd neck and form’d

your tender limbs. So taught of Jove, e'en the fell

savage

fed Your sacred infancies : your virtues, toils, The conquests, glories of th' Ausonian state, Wrapp'd in their sacred seeds. Each kindred

soul, Robust and stout, ye grapple to your

hearts; And little Rome appears. Her cots arise; Green twigs of osier weave the slender walls ; Green rushes spread the roofs ; and here and there Opens beneath the rock the gloomy cave. Elate with joy, Etruscan Tiber views Her spreading scenes enamelling his wave, Her huts and hollow dells, and flocks and herds, And gathering swains; and rolls his yellow car To Neptune's courts with more majestic train.

92

THE RUINS OF ROME.

Her speedy growth alarm'd the states around, Jealous; yet soon, by wondrous virtue won, They sink into her bosom. From the plough Rose her dictators; fought, o'ercame, return'd, Yes, to the plough return'd, and hail'd their peers : For them no private pomp, no household state, The public only swell’d the gen'rous breast. Who has not heard the Fabian heroes sung ? Dentatus' scars, or Mutius' flaming hand ? How Manlius sav'd the Capitol ? the choice Of steady Regulus ? As yet they stood Simple of life; as yet seducing wealth Was unexplored, and shame of poverty Yet unimagin’d. Shine not all the fields With various fruitage? Murmur not the brooks Along the flow'ry valleys ? They, content, Feasted at nature's hand, indelicate, Blithe in their easy taste, and only sought To know their duties—that their only strife, Their gen'rous strife, and greatly to perform. They, through all shapes of peril and of pain, Intent on honour, dar'd in thickest death To snatch the glorious deed. Nor Trebia quell’d, Nor Thrasymene, nor Canna's bloody field, Their dauntless courage : storming Hannibal In vain the thunder of the battle roll'd; The thunder of the battle they return’d Back on his Punic shores, till Cartnage fell, And danger fled afar. The city gleam'd With precious spoils : alas, prosperity! Ah, baneful state! Yet ebb’d not all their strength

THE RUINS OF ROME.

93

;

In soft luxurious pleasures : proud desire
Of boundless sway, and feverish thirst of gold,
Rous’d them again to battle. Beauteous Greece,
Torn from her joys, in vain, with languid arm,
Half-rais'd her rusty shield. Nor could avail
The sword of Dacia, nor the Parthian dart
Nor yet the car of that fam'd British chief,
Which seven brave years, beneath the doubtless

wing
Of vict'ry, dreadful roll'd its grinding wheels
Over the bloody war: the Roman arms
Triumph'd till Fame was silent of their foes.
And now the world unrivall'd they enjoy'd
In proud security: the crested helm,
The plaited greave and corslet, hung unbrac'd ;
Nor clank'd their arms, the spear and sounding

shield, But on the glittering trophy, to the wind.

Dissolv'd in ease and soft delights they lie,
Till every sun annoys,

and
every

wind
Has chilling force, and every rain offends.
For now the frame no more is girt with strength
Masculine, nor, in the lustiness of heart,
Laughs at the winter-storm and summer-beam,
Superior to their rage : enfeebling vice
Withers each nerve, and opens every pore
To painful feeling

But see, along the North the tempest swells O'er the rough Alps, and darkens all their snows ! Sudden the Goth and Vandal, dreadful names ! Rush as the breach of waters, whelming all

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