“Each hour a mercenary crowd
"With richest proffers strove:
"Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
“But never talk'd of love.

“In humble, simplest habit clad,

“Nor wealth nor power had he; "Wisdom and worth were all he had, "But these were all to me.

"The blossom opening to the day,
"The dews of heaven refin'd,
"Could nought of purity display,
"To emulate his mind.

“The dew, the blossom on the trec, "With charms inconstant shine; "Their charms were his, but, woe to me! "Their constancy was mine.

"For still I try'd each fickle art, "Importunate and vain :

"And while his passion touch'd my heart, "I triumph'd in his pain.

“Till quite dejected with my scorn,
“He left me to my pride;
“And sought a solitude forlorn,
“In secret, where he dy'd.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

" And well life shall pay; my "I'll seek the solitude he sought, "And stretch me where he lay.

"And there forlorn despairing hid,

"I'll lay me down and die: ""Twas so for me that Edwin did, "And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide, " "Twas Edwin's self that press'd.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

66

My charmer, turn to see "Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "Restor❜d to love and thee.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
"And ev'ry care resign:

And shall we never, never part,
my all that's mine?

My life

"No, never from this hour to part; "We'll live and love so true;

"The sigh that rends thy constant heart "Shall break thy Edwin's too."

EUPOLIS' HYMN TO THE CREATOR.

FROM THE GRERK.

WESTLEY.

AUTHOR of Being, source of light,
With unfading beauties bright,
Fullness, goodness, rolling round
Thy own fair orb without a bound:
Whether thee thy suppliants call
Truth, or Good, or One, or All,
Ei, or Iao; thee we hail,
Essence that can never fail,
Grecian or Barbaric name,
Thy stedfast being still the same.

Thee, when morning greets the skies
With rosy cheeks and humid eyes;
Thee, when sweet declining day
Sinks in purple waves away;
Thee will I sing, O parent Jove,
And teach the world to praise and love.

Yonder azure vault on high,

Yonder blue, low, liquid sky,

Earth on its firm basis plac'd,
And with circling waves embrac'd,
All Creating Pow'r confess,

All their mighty Maker bless.
Thou shak'st all nature with thy nod,

Sea, earth, and air, confess thee GOD!
Yet does thy pow'rful hand sustain
Both earth and heaven, both firm and main.

Scarce can our daring thought arise
To thy pavilion in the skies;
Nor can Plato's self declare
The bliss, the joy, the rapture there.
Barren above thou dost not reign,
But circled with a glorious train,
The sons of GOD, the sons of light,
Ever joying in thy sight:

(For thee their silver harps are strung)

Ever beauteous, ever young.

Angelic forms their voices raise,

And thro' heaven's arch resound thy praise.

The feather'd souls that swim the air,
And bathe in liquid æther there,
The lark, precenter of their choir,
Leading them higher still and higher,
Listen and learn; th' angelic notes
Repeating in their warbling throats,

And ere to soft repose they go,
Teach them to their lords below:
On the green turf, their mossy nest,
The ev❜ning anthem swells their breast.
Thus like thy golden chain from high,
Thy praise unites the earth and sky.

Source of light, thou bid'st the sun
On his burning axle run;

The stars like dust around him fly,
And strew the area of the sky.
He drives so swift his race above,
Mortals can't perceive him move:
So smooth his course, oblique or straight,
Olympus shakes not with his weight.
And as the queen of solemn night
Fills at his vase the orb of light,
Imparted lustre: thus we see
The solar virtue shines by thee.

Eiresione, we'll no more
Imaginary pow'r adore;
Since oil, and wool, and cheerful wine,
And life-sustaining bread are thine.

Thy herbage, O great Pan, sustains The flocks that graze our Attic plains: The olive, with fresh verdure crown'd, Rises pregnant from the ground;