H Y M N TO ADVERSITY. Ziva Τὸν φρονεῖν βροτὰς ὁδώ Θέλα κυρίως ἔχειν. ÆSCHYLUS, in Agamemnone. DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless Power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whofe iron scourge, and torturing hour, The bad affright, afflict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain The proud are taught to tafte of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied, and alone. When first thy fire to fend on earth What forrow was, thou bad'ft her know, And from her own fhe learn'd to melt at others woe. Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleafing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noife, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light Light they disperse, and with them go The fummer friend, the flattering foe; By vain profperity receiv'd, To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. Wisdom, in fable garb array'd, Immers'd in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, filent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy folemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the general Friend, And Pity, dropping foft the fadly-pleafing tear. Oh, gently on thy fuppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thundering voice, and threatening mien, With fcreaming Horror's funeral cry, Thy form benign, oh goddess wear, Thy philofophic train be there What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. ELEGY EL L E E G Y WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. HE Curfew tolls* the knell of parting day, TH The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep. The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn, *** fquilla di lontano "Che paia 1 giorno pianger, che fi muore." DANTE. PURGAT; 1. 8. For For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, No children run to lifp their fire's return, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, Can ftoried urn or animated buft Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, «Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene, Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of liftening fenates to command, Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone The ftruggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Yet |