And laid him decent on the funeral pile;

Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned-
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned.
Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren shade, and in his honor grow.

By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell,

In one sad day beheld the gates of hell;

While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed,
Amid their fields, the hapless heroes bled!
My mother lived to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands:
Redeemed too late, she scarce beheld again
Her pleasing empire and her native plain,
When ah! oppressed by life-consuming wo
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

!

Yet while my Hector still survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee.
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all,
Once more will perish if my Hector fall!
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share:
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy
Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy;
Thou, from this tower defend the important post;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host;
That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain;
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven
Let others in the field their arms employ,
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."
The chief replied: That post shall be my care
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.

ground,

How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the
Attaint the lustre of my former name,
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame!
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My soul impels me to the embattled plains;
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories, 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! must bend,
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end!
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,

My mother's death, (the ruin of my kind!)
Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore,
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread:
I see thee, trembling, weeping, captive led
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes, of which so large a part was thine!
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.
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 see,
Embitters all thy woes by naming me.
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,
A thousand griefs shall waken at the Name;
May I lie cold before that dreadful day
Pressed with a load of monumental clay!
Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep,
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep!"

2

Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy Stretched his fond arms to clasp his lovely boy:.. The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest: With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, And Hector hasted to relieve his child; The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the beaming helmet on the ground; Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer

A

O Thou, whose glory fills the ethereal throne
And all ye Deathless-Powers! protect my son!
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown;
Against his country's foes the war to wage,
And rise the Hector of the future age!
So when triumphant from successful toils
Of heroes slain, he bears the reeking spoils,
Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,
And say, This Chief transcends his Father's fame!
While, pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy
His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy!?

He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms,
Restored the pleasing burden to her arms;
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid,
Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed:
The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear,

She mingled with the smile a tender tear.
The softened chief with kind compassion viewed,
And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued
'Andromache! my soul's far better part,
Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart?
No hostile hand can antedate my doom,
Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb:
Fixed is the term to' all the race of earth,
And such the hard condition of our birth
No force can then resist, no flight can save,
All sink alike, the fearful and the brave.
No more!-but hasten to thy tasks at home,
There guide the spindle and direct the loom:
Me glory summons to the martial scene,
The field of combat is the sphere for Men!
Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim
The first in danger, as the first in fame!"

Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes
His towery helmet, black with shading plumes:
His princess parts with a prophetic sigh
Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye,
That streamed at every look: then, moving slow,
Sought her own palace, and indulged her wo.
There, while her tears deplored the godlike man,
Through all her train the soft infection ran;
The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed,
And mourned the living Hector, as the dead.

POPE.

Finite and Infinite.

I. Finite, or what has an end, compared with Infinite or what has no end, is nothing. A hundred millions of years compared with Eternity, are nothing. II. There is more proportion betwixt the least Finite and the greatest Finite, than there is between a hundred millions of years and Eternity. Because the least Finite makes part of the greatest; whereas the greatest Finite makes no part of Infinite. An hour makes part of a hundred millions of years; because a hundred millions of years are only an hour repeated a certain number of times: whereas, a hundred millions of years make no part of Eternity; and Eternity is not a hundred millions of years repeated a

certain number of times. III. With regard to Infinite, the least or greatest Finite are the same thing. With re gard to Eternity, an hour or a hundred millions of years are the same thing. So are the duration of the life of man © and the duration of the world itself; because both of them are nothing and nothing admits not of more or less.

All this being granted, I now suppose God to grant you but a Quarter of an Hour to live, wherein to secure an Eternity of happiness and avoid an Eternity of misery; and at the same time to reveal to you, that the World itself should come to an end an Hour after your death I-ask you, on this supposition, What account would you make of the World and its judgements? What account would you make of the pains or the pleasures you might experience during your life? With what care would you think yourselves obliged to employ yourselves every moment of your life, to prepare for Death? O, fools that you are! Do you not perceive, that, with respect to God, with respect to Eternity, the supposition I have just made is, indeed, a reality! that the duration of your life, compared to Eternity, is less than a Quarter of an Hour, and the duration of the universe less than an Hour ?

"

I make another supposition If you had a Hundred years to live, and for your support the whole of this period, must only have what you could carry away in the space of an Hour from a treasury of gold and silver coin, the entrance to which should be open during that hour I ask, in what you would employ the hour? In sleeping, walking, feasting, diversion? Doubtless not; but in amassing riches, and even in loading yourself with gold in preference to silver. O, fools that we are! we must exist to all Eternity, and during this Eternity, we shall only have the reward secured in Time, and during the short space of our life and yet we employ not all our time in endeavouring to obtain a great reward!

But you will say to me -"during Life it is necessary to sleep, to drink, to eat, and take some slight recreation." I grant it; but what hinders, that, like St Paul, you may do all for the Love of God, and thereby obtain a recom pense for all?

It must be confessed, that the Passions are so lively, and opportunities so seducing, that it is a wonder there should be one Righteous man upon earth; nevertheless there are such and this is the effect of the Mercy of God and the Grace of the Redeemer- on the other hand, Death, Judgement, and Eternity, are truths so aweful,

that it is astonishing that there should be one obstinate Sinner upon earth; such, however, is the effect of forgetting these great truths. Let us then meditale, watch, be of the number of the Righte

and
that we may
pray,
ous in Time and Eternity.

Evangelical Mag. for Aug. 1811.

OTHELLO'S Apology.

Duke. What, in your own part, can you say to this? Othello. Most potent, grave, and reverend, SigniorsMy very noble, and approved, good, Masters That I have ta’en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her → The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven-years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broils and battles; And, therefore, little shall I grace my cause o In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patience,

I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver,!

Of my whole course of love; what Drugs, what Charms What Conjurations, and what mighty Magic-i

For such proceedings I am charged withal

I won his Daughter with.

Brabantio.

A maiden never bold; &c. qnt Ma with some dram conjured to this effect He wrought upon her.

Duke. To vouch this, is no proof; &c.

Senator. But, Othello, speak

Did you, by indirect and forced courses,
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections?
Or came it by request, and such fair question,
As soul to soul affordeth?

Othello.

I do beseech you,

Send for the Lady &c.
Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither.

Othello. Ancient, conduct them; &c.

And till she come, as truely as to Heaven
I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly I'll to your grave ears present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's Love
And she in mine,

Duke. Say it, Othello.