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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;
Sure rivals are the worst !
Afflictions easier grow;
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are laboring in my breast;
Would you but slight the rest.
With them alone I'll cope:
But not another's hope.
1672–1719. (JOSEPH ADDISON was born on the ist 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
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, Whilst all the stars that round her burn, With all the blue ethereal sky,
And all the planets, in their turn, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Confirm the tidings as they roll, Their great original proclaim.
And spread the truth from pole to pole. Th’ unweary'd sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display; What, though in solemn silence, all And publishes, to every land,
Move round the dark terrestrial ball; The work of an Almighty hand.
What though nor real voice nor sound,
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? Soon as the evening shades prevail, In reason's ear they all rejoice, The moon takes up the wondrous tale; And utter forth a glorious voice; And nightly to the listening earth, For ever singing, as they shine, Repeats the story of her birth;
The hand that made us is divine.
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st worlds.
Through all the mazes of the grove, Back on herself, and startles at destruc- Through all the mingling tracts I rove, tion?
Turning, 'Tis the Divinity, that stirs within us;
Burning, 'Tis Heav'n itself, that points out a Changing, hereafter,
Ranging, And intimates eternity to man.
Full of grief and full of love, Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful
Impatient for my Lord's return
I sigh, I pine, I rave, I mourn,
And break my rest,
Absence wounds me,
Fear surrounds me,
Guilt confounds me, Here will I hold. If there's a power Was ever passion cross'd like mine? (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud How does my constant grief deface Through all her works,) he must delight. The pleasures of this happy place! in virtue;
In vain the spring my senses greets, And that which he delights in must be In all her colors, all her sweets; happy.
To me the rose But when or where? — This world was
No longer glows, made for Cæsar.
Every plant I'm weary of conjectures — this must Has lost his scent; end 'em.
The vernal blooms of various hue,
The breeze that sweeps these fragrant
Purple scenes, The Soul, secured in her existence, Winding greens, smiles
Glooms inviting, At the drawn dagger, and defies its Birds delighting, point:
(Nature's softest, sweetest store) The stars shall fade away, the Sun Charm my tortur'd soul no more. himself
Ye powers, I rave, I faint, I die: Grow dim with age, and Nature sink Why so slow! great Henry, why?
From death and alarms But thou shalt flourish in immortal Fly, fly to my arms, youth,
Fly to my arms, my monarch, fly.
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.]
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone:
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.
The sun that walks his airy way,
Lovely, lasting peace, appear ! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast.
Go search among your idle dreams,
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
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."
Far in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit
grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble
cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal
well : Remote from man, with God he pass'd
the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure
praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion
Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
That vice should triumph, virtue vice And talk of various kind deceived the obey,
road; This sprung some doubt of Providence's Till each with other pleased, and loth to sway:
part, His hopes no more a certain prospect While in their age they differ, join in boast,
heart: And all the tenor of his soul is lost : Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, So when a smooth expanse receives im- Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.
prest Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of Down bend the banks, the trees depend
day ing grow,
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober And skies beneath with answering colors gray; glow;
Nature in silence bade the world repose: But if a stone the gentle scene divide,
When near the road a stately palace Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken There by the moon through ranks of sun,
trees they pass, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder Whose verdure crown'd their sloping
sides of grass. To clear this doubt, to know the world
It chanced the noble master of the dome, by sight,
Still made his house the wandering To find if books, or swains, report it stranger's home: right;
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of (For yet by swains alone the world he praise, knew,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,)
The pair arrive: the liveried servants He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he
Their lord receives them at the pomAnd fix'd the scallop in his hat before; pous gate. Then with the sun a rising journey went, The table groans with costly piles of Sedate to think, and watching each
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they The morn was wasted in the pathless
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps And long and lonesome was the wild to of down.
pass; But when the southern sun had warm'd At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of the day,
day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing Along the wide canals the zephyrs way;
play; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes And soft in graceful ringlets waved his creep, hair.
And shake the neighboring wood to Then near approaching, “ Father, hail !”
banish sleep. he cried,
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call, “And hail, my son,” the reverend sire An early banquet deck'd the splendid replied;
hall; Words follow'd words, from question Rich luscious wine a golden goblet answer flow'd