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Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary, to our great Maker, ftill new praise.
Ye mifts and exhalations! that now rife
From hill or fteaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the fun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author, rife;
Whether to deck with clouds, th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling fhowers,
Rifing, or falling, ftill advance his praife.

His praife, ye winds! that from four quarters blow,
Breathe foft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines!
With every plant, in fign of worship, wave.
Fountains and ye, that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.-
Join voices, all ye living fouls. Ye birds,
That, finging, up to heaven-gate afcend,
Bear, on your wings, and in your notes, his praife.
Ye, that in waters glide! and ye, that walk
The earth, and ftately tread, or lowly creep!
Witnefs, if I be filent, morn or even,

To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh fhade,
Made vocal by my fong, and taught his praife.-
Hail, univerfal Lord! Be bounteous ftill,
To give us only good: and, if the night
Have gather'd ought of evil, or conceal'd→→
Difperfe it, as now light difpels the dark.




H, firft of human bleffings, and fupreme!

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Fair Peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou! :

By whofe wide tie, the kindred fons of men,
Like brothers live, in amity combin'd,
And unfufpicious faith: while honest toil
Gives every joy; and, to those joys, a right,
Which idle barbarous rapine but ufurps.

Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood,
Nought, fave the sweetness of indulgent showers,
Trickling, diftils into the vernant glebe;
Inftead of mangled carcafes, fad feen,

When the blythe fheaves lie fcatter'd o'er the field
When only fhining fhares, the crooked knife,
And hooks imprint the vegetable wound;
When the land blushes with' the rose alone,
The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine.
Oh, Peace! thou fource, and foul of focial life;
Beneath whofe calm infpiring influence,
Science his views enlarges, art refines,

And fwelling commerce opens all her ports➡
Blefs'd be the man divine, who gives us thee!
Who bids the trumpet hush his horrid clang,
Nor blow the giddy nations into rage;

Who fheades the murderous blade; the deadly gun
Into the well-pil'd armory returns ;

And, every vigour from the work of death,
To grateful induftry converting, makes
The country flourish, and the city smile!
Unviolated, him the virgin fings;


And him, the fmiling mother, to her train.

Of him, the fhepherd, in the peaceful dale,
Chants; and, the treasures of his labour fure,
The hufbandman, of him, as at the plough,
Or team, he toils. With him, the failor fooths,
Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave;
And the full city, warm, from ftreet to street,
And shop to shop, refponfive, rings of him.
Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends,
Far as the fun rolls the diffufive day;

Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace;
Till all the happy nations catch the fong.




TECTOR now pafs'd, with fad prefaging heart,


To feek his spouse, his foul's far dearer part. At home, he fought her; but he fought in vain : She, with one maid of all her menial train, Had thence retir'd; and, with her second joy, The young Aftyanax, the hope of Troy, Pensive she stood, on Ilion's tow'ry height, Beheld the war, and ficken'd at the fight: There, her fad eyes, in vain, her lord explore ; Or weep the wounds-her bleeding country bore.

HECTOR, this heard; return'd without delay; Swift, through the town, he took his former way, Thro' ftreeets of palaces, and walks of state; And met the mourner at the Scæan gate.

With hafte, to meet him, fprung the joyful fair,
His blameless wife, Aëtion's wealthy heir.
The nurfe ftood near; in whofe embraces press'd,
His only hope hung, fmiling, at her breast ;
Whom each foft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born ftar that gilds the morn.
Silent, the warrior smil'd; and, pleas'd, refign'd
To tender paffions all his mighty mind.
His beauteous princefs caft a mournful look;
Hung on his hand; and, then, dejected, spoke.
Her bofom labour'd with a boding figh;
And the big tear-ftood trembling in her eye:

"Too daring prince !-Ah! whither doft thou run ? ⠀

Ah! too forgetful of thy wife and fon!

And think'ft thou not, how wretched we shall be ?
A widow I, an helpless orphan he !

For, fure, fuch courage length of life denies ;
And thou must fall, thy virtue's facrifice.
Greece, in her fingle heroes ftrove in vain

Now hofts oppofe thee-and thou must be flain.
Oh, grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of heav'n- an early tomb!
So fhall my days, in one fad tenor run,
And end with forrows, as they firft begun.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share-
Oh! prove a husband's, and a parent's care.
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon wild. fig-trees join the wall of Troy:
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have giv❜n,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heav'n.
Let others, in the field, their arms employ ;
But ftay, my Hector, here, and guard his Troy."

THE chief reply'd-" That poft shall be my care:

Nor that alone; but all the works of war.


How would the fons of Troy, in arms renown'd,

And Troy's proud dames, whofe garments fweep the


Attaint the luftre of my former name,

Should Hector bafely quit the field of fame!
My early youth was bred to warlike pains :
My foul impels me to the martial plains.
Still foremost let me ftand, to guard the throne,
To fave my father's honours, and my own.-
Yet, come it will! the day decreed by fates!
(How my heart trembles, while my tongue relates !)
The day, when thou, imperial Troy !-muft bend;
Muft fee thy warriors fall; thy glories end.
And, yet, no dire prefage fo wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore,
As thine, Andromache !-Thy griefs I dread!
I fee thee, trembling, weeping captive led,
In Argive looms our battles to design,

And woes, of which fo large a part was thine.
There, while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry-" Behold the mighty Hector's wife !"
Some Haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to fee,
Embitters all thy woes by naming me.
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,
A thousand griefs, fhall, waken at the name!-
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Prefs'd with a load of monumental clay !
Thy Hector, wrapt in everlafting fleep,
Shall neither hear thee figh, nor fee thee weep."

THUS having fpoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy,
Stretch'd his fond arms, to clafp the lovely boy.


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