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And tremble while I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation priz❜d above all price,

I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him,
We have no slaves at home-then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire, that where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

COWPER.

XXI.-The Pain arising from virtuous Emotions attended with Pleasure.

BEHOLD the ways

Of Heaven's eternal destiny to man,

For ever just, benevolent, and wise:

That Virtue's awful steps, howe'er pursued
By vexing Fortune and intrusive Pain,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy soft'ning soul
At length may learn what energy the hand
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of passion swelling with distress and pain,
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure? Ask the faithful youta,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego

That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance sooths,
With virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture.-Ask the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village-walk
To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast
Some hapless bark; while sacred pity melts
The general eye, or terror's icy hand

Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While every mother closer to her breast

Catches her child, and, pointing where the waves
foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms
For succour, swallow'd by the rearing surge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down. O deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature given
To mutual terror, and compassion's tears?
No sweetly-melting softness which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs,
To this their proper action and their end ?—
Ask thy own heart; when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;—
Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? or wouldst thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows, for the lot
Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aleft his gold-invested front,
And says within himself "I am a king,

"And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of woe
"Intrude upon mine ear?" The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorius draught
Of servitude and folly, have not yet,

Bless'd be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!
Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame
The native honours of the human soul,
Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.

AKENSIDE.

XXII-Evening in Paradise.

Now came still evʼning on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober liv'ry all things clad.
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk; all but the wakeful nightingale.
She all night long her am'rous descant sung;
Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament
With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,

Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

When Adam thus to Eve: " Fair consort, th' hour
Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest,
Mind us of like repose; since God hath set
Labour and rest, as day and night, to men
Successive: and the timely dew of sleep,
Now falling with soft slumb'rous weight, inclines
Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long
Rove idle unemploy'd, and less need rest:
Man hath his daily work of body or mind
Appointed, which declares his dignity,
And the regard of Heav'n to all his ways;
While other animals inactive range,
And of their doings God takes no account.
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east
With first approach of light, we must be risen,
And at our pleasant labour; to reform
Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green,
Our walk at noon, with branches over grown,
That mock our scant manuring, and require
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth.
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,
That lie bestrown unsightly and unsmooth,
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease.
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest.”

To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd; "My author and disposer, what thou bidst Unargu'd I obey; so God ordains. With thee conversing I forget all time; All seasons and their change; all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun

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When first on this delightful land be spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow'r
Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft show'rs; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; then silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flow'r,
Glist'ring with dew; nor fragrance after show'rs;
Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night
With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon,
Or glitt'ring star light, without thee is sweet.
But wherefore all night long shine these? for whom
This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?"
To whom our gen'ral ancestor replied;

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Daughter of God and man, accomplish'd Eve, These have their course to finish round the earth, By morrow evening; and from land to land, In order, though to nations yet unborn, Minist'ring light prepar'd, they set and rise; Lest total darkness should by night regain Her old possession, and extinguish life In nature and all things; which these soft fires Not only enlighten, but, with kindly heat Of various influence, foment and warm, Temper or nourish; or in part shed down Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow On earth, made hereby apter to receive Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain; nor think, though men were none, That heav'n would want spectators, God want praise; Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep. All these with ceaseless praise his works behold, Both day and night. How often, from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to others' note, Singing their great Creator? Oft in bands, While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk With heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds,

In full harmonic number join'd, their songs
Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heaven."
Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd
On to their blissful bow'r.

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-There arriv'd, both stood,

Both turn'd; and under open sky ador'd

The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n,
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe,
And starry pole. "Thou also mad'st the night,
Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day,
Which we, in our appointed work employ'd,
Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help,
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss
Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place
For us too large, where thy abundance wants
Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground.
But thou has promis'd from us two a race
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol
Thy goodness infinite, both when we awake,
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep."

XXIII.-The Covenanters.

MILTON.

THERE dwell

The true Descendants of those godly Men
Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal,
Shine, Altar, Image, and the massy Piles
That harboured them,-the Souls retaining yet
The churlish features of that after Race

Who fled to caves, and woods, and naked rock
In deadly scorn of superstitious rites,
Or what their scruples construed to be such;
How, think you, would they tolerate the scheme
Of fine propensities? that tends, if urged
Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh
The weeds of Romish Phantasy, in vain
Uprooted; would re-consecrate our Wells
To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne;
And from long banishment recall Saint Giles,
To watch again with tutelary love

O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags.
A blessed restoration to behold

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