his mother’s ruin.

Exeunt.

Act I

Scene II

Otho, Poppaea

Otho

Thus far we’re safe. Thanks to the rosy queen
Of amorous thefts; and had her wanton son
Lent us his wings, we could not have beguiled
With more elusive speed the dazzled sight
Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely;
Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim’rous cloud
That hangs on thy clear brow. So Helen looked,
So her white neck reclined, so was she borne
By the young Trojan to his gilded bark
With fond reluctance, yielding modesty,
And oft reverted eye, as if she knew not
Whether she feared, or wished to be pursued.

The Alliance of Education and Government

A Fragment

… πόταγ ̕ ὦ ̕γαθέ· τὰν γὰρ ἀοιδὰν
Οὕτι πα εἰς Αΐδάν γε τὸν ἐκλελάθοντα φυλαξεῖς.

Theocritus, Id. I. 63

Essay I.

As sickly plants betray a niggard earth,
Whose barren bosom starves her generous birth,
Nor genial warmth, nor genial juice retains
Their roots to feed, and fill their verdant veins;
And as in climes, where Winter holds his reign,
The soil, though fertile, will not teem in vain,
Forbids her gems to swell, her shades to rise,
Nor trusts her blossoms to the churlish skies,
So draw mankind in vain the vital airs,
Unformed, unfriended, by those kindly cares,
That health and vigour to the soul impart,
Spread the young thought, and warm the opening heart.
So fond Instruction on the growing powers
Of Nature idly lavishes her stores,
If equal Justice with unclouded face
Smile not indulgent on the rising race,
And scatter with a free though frugal hand
Light golden showers of plenty o’er the land.
But Tyranny has fixed her empire there,
To check their tender hopes with chilling fear,
And blast the blooming promise of the year.
This spacious animated scene survey
From where the rolling orb, that gives the day,
His sable sons with nearer course surrounds,
To either pole, and life’s remotest bounds.
How rude so e’er th’ exterior form we find,
Howe’er Opinion tinge the varied mind,
Alike to all the kind impartial Heaven
The sparks of truth and happiness has given;
With sense to feel, with memory to retain,
They follow pleasure, and they fly from pain;
Their judgment mends the plan their fancy draws,
Th’ event presages, and explores the cause.
The soft returns of gratitude they know,
By fraud elude, by force repel the foe,
While mutual wishes, mutual woes endear
The social smile, and sympathetic tear.
Say then, thro’ ages by what fate confined
To different climes seem different souls assigned?
Here measured laws and philosophic ease
Fix and improve the polished arts of peace;
There Industry and Gain their vigils keep,
Command the winds, and tame th’ unwilling deep.
Here Force and hardy deeds of blood prevail.
There languid Pleasure sighs in every gale.
Oft o’er the trembling nations from afar
Has Scythia breathed the living cloud of war;
And, where the deluge burst, with sweepy sway
Their arms, their kings, their gods were rolled away.
As oft have issued, host impelling host,
The blue-eyed myriads from the Baltic coast.
The prostrate South to the destroyer yields
Her boasted titles and her golden fields.
With grim delight the brood of Winter view
A brighter day, and heavens of azure hue;
Scent the new fragrance of the breathing rose,
And quaff the pendent vintage as it grows.
Proud of the yoke, and pliant to the rod,
Why yet does Asia dread a monarch’s nod,
While European freedom still withstands
Th’ encroaching tide, that drowns her lessening lands,
And sees far off with an indignant groan,
Her native plains, and empires once her own.
Can opener skies, and suns of fiercer flame
O’erpower the fire that animates our frame;
As lamps, that shed at eve a cheerful ray,
Fade and expire beneath the eye of day?
Need we the influence of the northern star
To string our nerves and steel our hearts to war?
And, where the face of nature laughs around,
Must sick’ning virtue fly the tainted ground?
Unmanly thought! what seasons can control,
What fancied zone can circumscribe the Soul,
Who, conscious of the source from whence she springs,
By Reason’s light, on Resolution’s wings,
Spite of her frail companion, dauntless goes
O’er Libya’s deserts and through Zembla’s snows?
She bids each slumb’ring energy awake,
Another touch, another temper take,
Suspends th’ inferior laws that rule our clay;
The stubborn elements confess her sway,
Their little wants, their low desires, refine,
And raise the mortal to a height divine.
Not but the human fabric from the birth
Imbibes a flavour of its parent earth,
As various tracts enforce a various toil,
The manners speak the idiom of their soil.
An iron-race the mountain-cliffs maintain,
Foes to the gentler genius of the plain;
For where unwearied sinews must be found
With side-long plough to quell the flinty ground,
To turn the torrent’s swift-descending flood,
To brave the savage rushing from the wood,
What wonder, if to patient valour trained
They guard with spirit what by strength they gained?
And while their rocky ramparts round they see,
The rough abode of want and liberty,
(As lawless force from confidence will grow)
Insult the plenty of the vales below?
What wonder in the sultry climes, that spread
Where Nile redundant o’er his summer-bed
From his broad bosom life and verdure flings
And broods o’er Egypt with his wat’ry wings,
If with adventurous oar and ready sail,
The dusky people drive before the gale;
Or on frail floats to distant cities ride,
That rise and glitter o’er the ambient tide?

Epitaph on Mrs. Clarke

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A Friend, a Wife, a Mother sleeps;
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues loved to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.
In agony, in death, resigned,
She felt the wound she left behind,
Her infant image here below
Sits smiling on a father’s woe;
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear,
A sigh, an unavailing tear;
Till time shall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

Epitaph on Sir William Williams

Here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,
Young Williams fought for England’s fair renown;
His mind each Muse, each Grace adorned his frame,
Nor envy dared to view him with a frown.

At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,
There first in blood his infant honour sealed;
From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew,
And scorned repose when Britain took the field.

With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast
Victor he stood on Belleisle’s rocky steeps⁠—
Ah, gallant

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