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With woful measures, wan despair
Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguild:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air!
'Twas sad by fits-by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And from the rocks, the wood, the vale,
She callid on Echo, still thro' all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden

hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge, impatient, rose: He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, dowr And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dreadWere ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo! And, ever and

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he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat: -And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side, Her soul-subduing voice apply'd, Yet still he kept his wild, unalter'd mien, While each strain’d ball of sight seem'd bursting

from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy! to nought were fix’d:
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd
And now it courted Love,-now raving call’d on

Hate.
With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir’d,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes, by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd thro the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And, dashing, soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound.
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole;
Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

-(Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing,) In hollow murmurs dy'd away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

-(Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,)
Blew an inspiring air,—that dale and thicke: rung;
The Hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen,
Satyrs and Sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last camc Joy's extatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address’d;
But, soon, he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unweary'd minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram’d with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

HYMN TO THE DEITY ON THE SEASONS

OF THE YEAR.

THOMPSON,

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring

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Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields--the softening air is balm-
Echo the mountains round—the forest smiles,
And every sense, and every heart is joy.
Then comes thy glory in the summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year.
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ;
And oft, at dawn, deep noon or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn uncontin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that live.
In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms
Around thee thrown—tempest o'er tempest rollid :
Majestic darkness on the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, thou bid'st the world adore,
And humblest nature with thy northern blast.

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep felt in these appear! a simple train--
Yet so delightful mix’d, with such kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combin'd-
Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade-
And all so forming an harmonious whole--
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wandering oft with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand,
That ever busy, wheels the silent spheres--
Works in the secret deep-shoots, teeming thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring-
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day :
Feeds every creature-hurls the tempest forth :
And as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature attend ! join every living soul,
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join--and ardent raise
One general song! To him, ye vocal gales,
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes
O talk of him in solitary glooms,
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.

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And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,
Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heave:
Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage.
His praise, ye brooks attune, ye trembling rills
And let me catch it as I muse along.
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze
Along the vale--and thou majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself
Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roaring cease.
Soft roll your incense, herbs and fruits and flowers,
In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to him--
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep

watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! blest image here below,
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On nature write with every beam his praise.
Ye thunders roll; be hush'd the prostrate world,
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills, ye mossy rocks
Retain the sound; the broad responsive low,
Ye vallies raise ; for the great Shepherd reigns,
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all, awake ; a boundless song
Burst from the groves; and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela, charm
The listening shades, and teach the night his praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all;
Crown the great hymn ! In swarming cities vast,
Assembled men to the deep organ join
The loud resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling base

And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardor rise to heaven.
Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or winter rises in the blackening east-
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !

Should fate command me to the furthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant barb’rous climes,
Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on the Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me-
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full-
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey—there with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing-I cannot go,
Whose Universal Love smiles not around,
Sustaining

all yon orbs, and all their suns-
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression--but I lose
Myself in Him, in Light Ineffable !
Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise.

EXECUTION OF THE EARL OF ARGYLE.

FOX'S HISTORY OF JAMES II.--PAGE 148, Svo.

On the 30th of June, 1685, the Earl of Argyle was brought from the castle, first to the Laigh Council House, and thence to the place of execution. Before he left the Castle, he had his dinner at the usual hour, at which he discoursed, not only calmly,

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