“Each hour a mercenary crowd "In humble, simplest habit clad, "The blossom opening to the day, "The dew, the blossom on the tree, "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 my life shall pay; "I'll seek the solitude he sought, "And stretch me where he lay. "And there forlorn despairing hid, "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, 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 life my all that's mine? "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, Grecian or Barbaric name, Thy stedfast being still the same. Thee, when morning greets the skies With cheeks and humid eyes; rosy 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, All their mighty Maker bless. Thou shak'st all nature with thy nod, 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. (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 ere to soft repose they go, Source of light, thou bid'st the sun The stars like dust around him fly, Eiresione, we'll no more Since oil, and wool, and cheerful wine, Thy herbage, O great Pan, sustains |