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A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O’er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain;
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field:
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain:
“ Think nothing gained,” he cries, “till nought remain;
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky.”
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait:
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost;
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay :-
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day!
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemned, a needy supplicant, to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not Chance at length her error mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left the name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find ?
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?
Inquirer, cease! petitions yet remain,
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.
Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer;
Implore His aid, in His decisions rest,
Secure, whate’er He gives, He gives the best.
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful inind,
Obedient passions, and a will resigned;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat:
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
Those goods He grants, who grants the power to gain;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.
THOMAS WARTON Was born at Basingstoke, in 1728. He was educated at Oxford, and defended that university, when attacked by Mr. Mason, in a poem of great spirit ard promise. After some other works had made him distinguished, he was elected Professor of Poetry, and, soon after, was appointed Poet Laureate. He died A.D. 1790.
Warton ranks only among the minor poets; but among them he holds a conspicuous place for spirited description and propriety of language.
Bound for holy Palestine,
Nimbly we brushed the level brine,
All in azure steel arrayed;
O’er the wave our weapons played,
And made the dancing billows glow;
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung:
“Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
English Richard' ploughs the deep!
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy
From distant towers, with anxious eye,
The radiant range of shield and lance
Down Damascus' hills advance:
From Sion's turrets, as afar
Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
Saladin”, thou paynim 3 king,
From Albion's isle revenge we bring ! 1 Richard, Richard I., surnamed, medans that defended Palestine against from his valour, Cæur de Lion.
On Acon's* spiry citadel,
Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictured with the silver moon:
England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:
Those sounds our rising fury fan:
English Richard in the van,
On to victory we go,-
A vaunting infidel the foe!”
Blondel3 led the tuneful band,
And swept the lyre with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete®, with piny verdure crowned,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.
Soon we kissed the sacred earth
That gave a murdered Saviour birth!
Then with ardour fresh endued,
Thus the solemn song renewed:
“Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
Heaven's favoured hills appear at last!
Object of our holy vow,
We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creęp:
O’er Engaddi's8 shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpled palm;
See Lebanon’so aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail Calvary 10, the mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your ravished honours to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore !
And, thou, the sepulchre of God,
By mocking pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,
And quenched thy lamps that beamed so bright; 4 Acon, anciently called Ptolemais, | Engaddi, a mountain of Palestine. now St. Jean d'Acre.
For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host !
Aloft in his heroic hand,
Blazing like the beacon's brand,
O’er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn” he wields.
Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
From each wild mountain's trackless crown
In vain thy gloomy castles frown:
Thy battering-engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in terrific state,
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hushed the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight's vapours damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain:
We bid the spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth”? and Termagaunt18!
With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doomed to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's!4 sooty tree,
"Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.
“ Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
Soon on the battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
Ye barons, to the sun unfold
Our cross with crimson wove and gold !”
Was born at Berkhamstead, Herts, A.D. 1731. He was educated at Westminster School; but, from his constitutional in
om his constitutional infirmity, was unable to join in the rough sports, or bear the rude jokes, of his school-follows. From thence he removed to the Temple, to qualify himself for the office of Clerk to the House of Lords,-an appointment that had been obtained for him. His great timidity prevented him from accepting the office; and he subsequently fell into a deplorable state of mental debility. On his recovery, he removed to the village of Olney, where the rest of his life was spent in retirement. His first volume of poems did not attract much attention; but the publication of The Task established his poetical fame In the latter part of his life, Cowper's despondency shattered his intellects, and he fell into a state of absolute despair. He died of dropsy, A.D. 1800.
The poetry of Cowper exhibits a strange mixture of sombre melancholy and Stoical morality, with playful humour, bright wit, and fascinating ease. He is,
haps, too stern a moralist; but there is an earnest sincerity in his manner which proves that he wrote from the convictions of his own mind, and with an anxious desire to promote the best interests of mankind.
THE WINTER EVENING.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That, with its wearisome but needful length,
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the Moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch!
Cold, and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all,
But oh the important budget! ushered in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are his tidings? Have our troops awaked?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free? And does she wear her plumed