ADDISON. JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719), is chiefly distinguished by his prose writings. It was by his poetry, however, that he first rose to distinction. His principal poetical performances are his Letter from Italy, the Battle of Blenheim, Cato, and the Odes. ODE. The spacious firmament on high, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, The unwearied sun, from day to day, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What, though in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? 20 (229) What though nor real voice nor sound CATO'S SOLILOQUY. Cato, alone, sitting in a thoughtful posture: in his hand Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul. A drawn sword on the table by him. It must be so-Plato, thou reasonest well!- Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar. I'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. (Laying his hand on his sword. Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlda. SWIFT. JONATHAN SWIFT (1667–1745), was the great Satirist of the eighteenth century. His writings, both in prose and verse, are very numerous, and had a powerful influence on his contemporaries. Those of his prose writings which have been most read are the Tale of a Tub, and Gulliver's Travels. He was a native of Dublin, and for the last thirty-two years of his life Dean of St. Patrick's. He is generally called Dean Swift. He had unbounded popularity with his countrymen, whom he alternately praised and abused in about equal proportions. The verses on his own death are a fine example of his peculiar poetical vein. An extract from this is given, together with a few passages from some of his other poems. VERSES ON HIS OWN Death. The time is not remote, when I You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him, till he's dead. He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind; Behold the fatal day arrive! How is the dean? he's just alive. The news through half the town has run "T is all bequeathed to public uses. |