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Τὸν φρονεῖν βρολὰς ὁδ
σαλα, τῷ στάθει μαθών
Θένα κυρίως ἔχειν.
ÆSCHYLUS, in Agamemnone.
AUGHTER of Jove, relentless Power,
Whofe iron fcourge, and torturing hour,
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 send on earth
What forrow was, thou bad'ft her know,
And from her own the 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 they difperfe, 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 fteps attend :
Warm Charity, the general Friend,
With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity, dropping foft the fadly-pleafing tear.
Oh, gently on thy fuppliant's head,
Dread goddess, lay thy chaftening hand!
Not in thy gorgon terrors clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful band
(As by the impious thou art feen)
With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
Thy form benign, oh goddess wear,
Thy philofophic train be there
To foften, not to wound my
The generous spark extinct revive.
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are, to feel, and know myself a man.
E LE G Y
WRITTEN IN A
HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight,
Beneath thofe rugged elins, that yew-tree's hade,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep,
The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
"fquilla di lontano
"Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che fi muore." DANTE. PURGAT: 1. 8.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn, glebe has brokę ;
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 thefe the fault,
Can ftoried urn or animated buft
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
And froze the genial current of the foul.
Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
Th' applaufe of liftening fenates to command,
Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,