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In wild disorder mingled, through the gloom.
And now appeared the desert's lofty head,
A narrow rock, with forest thinly spread.

His mighty hands displayed aloft in air,

To Jove the hero thus addressed a prayer:

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Hear me, dread Power, whose nod controls the skies,

At whose command the winged lightning flies!
Almighty sire! if yet you deign to own
Alcmena's wretched offspring as your son,
Some comfort in my agony impart,

And bid thy forked thunder rend this heart.
Round my devoted head it idly plays,

And, aids the fire which wastes me, with its rays.
By heat inflamed, this robe exerts its power
My scorched limbs to shrivel and devour,
Upon my shoulders like a dragon clings,
And fixes in my flesh a thousand stings.
Great sire in pity to my suit attend,
And with a sudden stroke my being end.'

"As thus the hero prayed, the lightning ceased, And thicker darkness all the hill embraced. He saw his suit denied: in fierce despair

The rooted pines he tore, and cedars fair;
And from the crannies of the rifted rocks
Twisted with force immense the stubborn oaks.
Of these upon the cliff a heap he laid,
And thus addressed me as I stood dismayed:

Behold, my friend! the ruler of the skies,

In agony invoked, my suit denies.

But sure the oracle inspired from heaven,

Which in Dodona's sacred grove was given,

The truth declared, that now my toils shall cease,
And all my painful labours end in peace.
Peace death can only bring; the raging smart,
Warped with my vitals, mocks each healing art.
Not all the plants that clothe the verdant field,
Not all the health a thousand mountains yield,
Which on their tops the sage physician finds,
Or, digging from the veins of flint, unbinds,
This fire can quench. And therefore, to obey
My last commands, prepare without delay.
When on this pile you see my limbs composed,
Shrink not, but hear what must not be opposed;
Approach, and, with an unrelenting hand,
Fix in the boughs beneath a flaming brand.
I must not longer trust this madding pain,
Lest some rash deed should all my glory stain.
Lychas I slew upon the Canian shore,

Who knew not, sure, the fatal gift he bore.
His guilt had taught him else to fly, nor wait
Till from my rage he found a sudden fate.
I will not Dejanira's action blame;

Let heaven decide, which only knows her aim,
Whether from hate, with treacherous intent,
This fatal garment to her lord she sent;
Or, by the cunning of a foe betrayed,
His vengeance thus imprudently conveyed.
If this, or that, I urge not my command,
Nor claim her fate from thy avenging hand.
To lodge my lifeless bones is all I crave,
Safe and uninjured, in the peaceful grave.'

"This with a hollow voice and altered look, In agony extreme, the hero spoke.

I poured a flood of sorrow, and withdrew
Amid the kindled groves to pluck a bough,
With which the structure at the base I fired.
"On every side the pointed flames aspired;
But ere involving smoke the pile enclosed,
I saw the hero on the top reposed,
Serene as one who, near the fountain laid,
At noon enjoys the cool refreshing shade.
The venomed garment hissed; its touch the fires
Avoiding, sloped oblique their pointed spires.
On every side the parted flame withdrew,
And levelled, round the burning structure flew.
At last, victorious to the top they rose,-
Firm and unmoved the hero saw them close.
His soul, unfettered, sought the blest abodes,
By virtue raised to mingle with the gods.
His bones in earth with pious hands I laid;
The place to publish nothing shall persuade,
Lest tyrants, now unawed, and men unjust,
With insults should profane his sacred dust.
E'er since, I haunt this solitary den,
Retired from all the busy paths of men;
For these wild mountains only suit my state,

And soothe, with kindred gloom, my deep regret."

THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

1721-1791.

A poet whose verse remains little more than an echo of the prevailing fashion in poetry of his time, the venerable Dr. Blacklock keeps name and fame among eighteenth century singers chiefly by reason of one fact. It was he whose prompt recognition of the genius of Burns arrested that poet on the eve of his departure from Scotland, and effected his introduction to Edinburgh and the greater world of letters.

His

The son of humble parents who were natives of Cumberlandhis father was a bricklayer-Blacklock was born at Annan in Dumfriesshire. When only six months old an attack of smallpox left him blind, and it might have been thought that for the rest of his days he was doomed to the fate of a pauper. spirit, however, proved itself capable of better things, and throughout life his amiability continually secured him friends who did all in their power to help his interests. At the age of twelve he was writing poetry, and though when he was nineteen his father was killed, his promise attracted a patron in the person of Dr. Stevenson, an eminent physician, who carried him to Edinburgh and supported him there for four years at the Grammar School. He found means also to attend the University, and qualify for the church. Among his friends in Edinburgh was David Hume the historian, who went so far as give up to him his salary as librarian of the Faculty of Advocates. Spence, too, the professor of poetry at Oxford, and friend of Pope, took great pains to introduce Blacklock's verse to the English public; while Beattie, the author of The Minstrel, got him the degree of D.D. from the University of Aberdeen.

In 1762 Blacklock married, and at the same time was presented to the parish of Kirkcudbright. His settlement was resisted, however, on account of his blindness. For many years subsequently the chief part of his livelihood was gained by the keeping of a better-class boarding-school in Edinburgh. Two years after his death an edition of his poems was published, with a life by Henry Mackenzie, the author of "The Man of Feeling." His work is also included in Chalmers' English Poets, vol. v.

ON EUANTHE'S ABSENCE.

AN ODE.

BLEST Heaven! and thou fair world below!
Is there no cure to soothe my smart?
No balm to heal a lover's woe,

That bids his eyes for ever flow,

Consumes his soul, and pines his heart? And will no friendly arm above Relieve my tortured soul from love?

As swift-descending showers of rain
Deform with mud the clearest streams—
As rising mists Heaven's azure stain,
Tinged with Aurora's blush in vain-
As fades the flower in mid-day beams;
On life thus tender sorrows prey,
And wrap in gloom its promised day.

Ye plains where dear Euanthe strays,
Ye various objects of her view,
Bedecked in Beauty's brightest blaze,
Let all its forms and all its rays,

Where'er she turns, her eyes pursue!

All fair as she let nature shine:
Ah! then, how, lovely! how divine!

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