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WILLIAM WALSH.

1663-1708.

[WILLIAM WALSH was born at Aberley in Worcestershire, in 1663. He died in 1708. His principal works are A Defence of the Fair Sex, 1680, and Poems, 1691.]

RIVALRY IN LOVE.

Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst!

By partners of each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;

In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are laboring in my breast;
I beg not you would favor me,
Would you but slight the rest.
How great soe'er your rigors are,
With them alone I'll cope:
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

1672-1719.

[JOSEPH ADDISON was born on the 1st of May, 1672. His first English poem was an address to Dryden on the publication of the latter's Translations of Ovid. This was written in his twentysecond year. In 1694 he published, in one of Dryden's Miscellanies, his Account of the Principal English Poets; in 1695 appeared his Address to King William. Having obtained a pension of £300 to enable him to travel, he visited the continent, and in 1701 wrote his Letter from Italy to Lord Halifax. When Godolphin in 1704 was in search of a poet to celebrate in an adequate manner the victory of Blenheim, Halifax directed him to Addison, who, in answer to the Treasurer's application, produced The Campaign, and obtained as a reward the post of Under-Secretary of State. His opera Rosamond was performed in 1706. In 1709 The Tatler began to appear, and The Spectator in 1711. Addison's tragedy of Cato was brought out in 1713. He also wrote Prologues and Epilogues to various plays; among others the Prologue to The Tender Husband and the Epilogue to Lord Lansdowne's British Enchanters. He died on the 17th of June, 1719.]

AN ODE.

THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unweary'd sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes, to every land,
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What, though in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though nor real voice nor sound,
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine.

HYMN.

How are thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence !
Eternal wisdom is their guide,
Their help Omnipotence.

In foreign realms and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,
Through burning climes I passed un-
hurt,

And breathed the tainted air.

Thy mercy sweetened every toil,
Made every region please;
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed,
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide extended deep
In all its horrors rise.

Confusion dwelt in every face,
And fear in every heart;

When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs,

O'ercame the pilot's art.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free,
Whilst in the confidence of prayer,
My faith took hold on thee.

For, though in dreadful whirls we hung,
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retired
Obedient to thy will;

The sea, that roared at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore,
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.

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Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.

ROSAMOND'S SONG.

FROM walk to walk, from shade to shade,

From stream to purling stream convey'd,
Through all the mazes of the grove,
Through all the mingling tracts I rove,
Turning,
Burning,
Changing,
Ranging,

Full of grief and full of love,
Impatient for my Lord's return
I sigh, I pine, I rave, I mourn,
Was ever passion cross'd like mine?
To rend my breast,
And break my rest,

A thousand thousand ills combine.
Absence wounds me,

Fear surrounds me,

Guilt confounds me,

Was ever passion cross'd like mine?

How does my constant grief deface
The pleasures of this happy place!
In vain the spring my senses greets,
In all her colors, all her sweets;
To me the rose
No longer glows,
Every plant

Has lost his scent;

The vernal blooms of various hue,
The blossoms fresh with morning dew,
The breeze that sweeps these fragrant
bowers,

Fill'd with the breath of op'ning flow'rs,
Purple scenes,
Winding greens,
Glooms inviting,
Birds delighting,

(Nature's softest, sweetest store)
Charm my tortur'd soul no more.
Ye powers, I rave, I faint, I die :
Why so slow! great Henry, why?
From death and alarms
Fly, fly to my arms,
Fly to my arms, my monarch, fly.

THOMAS PARNELL.

1679-1718.

[THOMAS PARNELL was born in Dublin in 1679, and was buried at Chester on the 18th of October, 1718. His Poems were first collected after his death, by Pope.]

FROM "A HYMN TO CONTENT

MENT."

THE silent heart, which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks, as I have vainly done,
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.

Lovely, lasting peace, appear! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It seem'd, as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke-"Go rule thy
will,

Bid thy wild passions all be still,
Know God and bring thy heart to
know

The joys which from religion flow: Then every Grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest."

Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy!
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,

In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,

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