That lay from everlasting in the store
Of his divine conception. Nor content,
By one exertion of creative pow'r
His goodness to reveal; through every age,
Through every moment, up the tract of time
His parent-hand with ever-new increase
Of happiness and virtue has adorn'd
The vaft harmonious frame.
GLOVER'S LEONIDAS.
I See, I feel, the anguish, nor my foul
Has ever known the prevalence of love,
E'er prov'd a father's fondness, as this hour;
Nor, when most ardent to affert my fame,
Was once my heart Infenfible to thee.
How had it ftain'd the honours of my name
To hesitate a moment, and fufpend
My country's fate, till shameful life preferr'd
By my inglorious colleague left no choice,
But what in me were infamy to fhun,
Not virtue to accept! Then deem no more
That of my love regardless, or thy tears,
I hafte uncall'd to death. "The voice of fate,
The gods, my fame, my country, bid me bleed.
-Oh! thou dear mourner, wherefore ftreams afresh
That flood of woe? Why heaves with sighs renew'd
That tender breaft? Leonidas muft fall.
Alas! far heavier mifery impends
O'er thee and thefe, if foften'd by thy tears,
I shamefully refuse to yield that breath,
Which justice, glory, liberty, and Heaven
Claim for my country, for my fons, and thee.
Think on my long unalter'd love. Reflect
On my paternal fondness. Has my heart
E'er known a paufe of love, or pious care?
Now fhall that care, that tenderness be prov'd
Most warm and faithful. When thy husband dies
For Lacedæmon's fafety, thou wilt fhare,
Thou and thy children, the diffufive good.
Should I, thus fingled from the rest of men,
Alone entrusted by th' immortal gods
With pow'r to fave a people, should my foul
Defert that facred caufe, thee too I yield
To forrow and to fhame; for thou must weep
With Lacedæmon, must with her sustain
Thy painful portion of oppreffion's weight.
Tby fons behold now worthy of their names,
And Spartan birth. Their growing bloom must pine
In fhame and bondage, and their youthful hearts
Beat at the found of liberty no more.
On their own virtue, and their father's fame,
When he the Spartan freedom hath confirm'd,
Before the world illuftrious shall they rife,
Their country's bulwark, and their mother's joy.
Here paus'd the patriot. With religious awe
Grief heard the voice of virtue, No complaint
The folemn filence broke. Tears ceas'd to flow:
Ceas'd for a moment; foon again to stream.
For now in arms before the palace rang'd
His brave companions of the war demand
Their leader's prefence; then her griefs renew'd,
Too great for utterance, intercept her fighs,
And freeze each accent on her fault'ring tongue.
In fpeechless anguish on the hero's breaft
She finks. On ev'ry fide his children press,
Hang on his knees, and kifs his honour'd hand.
His foul no longer ftruggles to confine
Its ftrong compunction. Down the hero's cheek,
Down flows the manly forrow. Great in woe,
Amid his children who inclofe him round,
He ftands indulging tenderness and love
In graceful tears; when thus with lifted eyes,
Addrefs'd to Heav'n:-Thou ever-living Power,
Look down propitious, Sire of gods and men!
And to his faithful woman, whofe defert
May claim thy favour, grant the hours of peace,
And thou, my great forefather, fon of Jove,
O Herculus, neglect not these thy race!
But fince that spirit I from thee derive,
Now bears me from them to refiftless fate,
Do thou fupport their virtue! Be they taught,
Like thee, with glorious labour life to grace,
And from their father let them learn to die!
WHO DIED IN 1639.
OW happy is he born or taught, That ferveth not another's will; Whose arinour is his honeft thought; And fimple truth his highest skill.
Whose paffions not his mafters are;
Whofe foul is ftill prepar'd for death;
Not ty'd unto the world with care
Of princes ear, or vulgar breath.
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whofe confcience is his ftrong retreat,
Whofe ftate can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppreffors great:
Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise; Nor rules of ftate, but rules of good:
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chofen book or friend!
This man is freed from fervile bands
Of hope to rife, or fear to fall,
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
damask cheeks and radiant eyes, Let other poets tell:
Within the bofom of the fair
Superior beauties 'dwell.
|