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And quantity, and accent, that can give
Or blend it with the movings of the soul.
THE WEAVER'S SONG.
Weave, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw
And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The violet, deep as your true loves' eyes,
Sing, brothers, sing! weave and sing!
Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave and bid
Let grace in each gliding thread be hid,
Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours;
One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
There's not a creature, from the thron'd king
That knows half the pleasure the seasons bring,
VOICE OF THE PESTILENCE.
Breathless the course of the Pale White Horse, Bearing the ghastly form
Rapid and dark as the spectre bark
When it sweeps before the storm!
Balefully bright through the torrid night
Ensanguined meteors glare
Fiercely the spires of volcanic fires.
Stream on the sulphurous air!
Shades of the slain through the murderer's brain
Flit terrible and drear
Shadowy and swift the black storm drift
Doth tremble the atmosphere!
But swifter than all, with a darker pall
I have arisen from my lampless prison-
A deep voice went from the firmament,
And it said, “Go forth from the south to the north,
Over yon wandering ball
Sin is the King of the doomed thing,
And the sin-beguiled must fall!"
Of Erebus and Old Night
From the unseen deep where Death and Sleep
I come-I come-before me are dumb
The nations aghast for dreadLo! I have past as the desert blast,
And the millions of earth lie dead.
A voice of fear from the hemisphere
Earth weeping aloud for her widowhood-
Thrones and dominions beneath my pinions
Cower like meanest things
Melt from my presence the pride and the pleasance
Sorrow and mourning supremely scorning,
My throne in the boundless air
My chosen shroud is the dark-plumed cloud-
Was I not borne on the wings of the morn
Over the plain of the purple main
To the far Mountain shore?
To the isles which sleep on the sunbright deep
Of a coral-paved sea;
Where the blue waves welter beneath the shelter
Of Heaven's serenity?
From the womb of the waters, athirst for slaughters,
I rose that thirst to sate
These green isles are graves in the waste of the wavesThis beauty is desolate!
From the wide Erythrean the noise of my paan
Rolled on the southern blast
Eternal Taurus made answering chorus
From the glaciers lone and vast!
Did I not pass his granite mass;
And the rigid Caucasian hill
Over burning sands-over frost-chained lands,
Borne at my own wild will?
Then hark to the beat of my hastening feet,
Thou shrined in the sea;
Where are the dreams that the ocean streams
Would be safety unto thee?
Awaken! awaken! my wings are shaken,
Athwart the troubled sky
Streams the red glance of meteor lance
And the glare of my eager eye.
Hearken, oh hearken! my coming shall darken
In thy storm-rocked home on the northern foam,
THE MAN OF ROSS.
"Rise, honest muse, and sing the Man of Ross."
THE true history and character of the individual, to whom the muse of Pope, thus invoked, arose and gave immortality in song, are but little known to the world at large, although almost every reader of the poet's lines must have felt an interest in a being so noble as the Man of Ross was there represented to be. John Kyrle was the proper appellation of the person whom local circumstances caused to bear the title of the Man of Ross. He was a native of the parish of Dymock, in the county of Gloucester, and was born on the 22d of May, 1637.
At the decease of his father, John Kyrle, who was the elder of two sons, found himself inheritor of little more than the family dwellinghouse in the town of Ross in Herefordshire, together with a few patches of land in the neighbourhood. But these possessions seem to have been quite sufficient to maintain him respectably, as he did not follow up the profession of the law, but permanently took up his residence in the district of his nativity. In truth, his frugal way of life, as well as his economical and judicious mode of managing his property, soon placed him in the most easy circumstances, and enabled him to make repeated accessions, by purchase, to the patrimony which had descended to him. But, though frugal in his habits, the subject of our notice was far, very far indeed, from exhibiting at any period of his career a spirit of avarice or money-hoarding. On the contrary, he was endowed with one of the most generous and noble hearts that ever fell to the lot of man, and hence, in reality, his celebrity, hence the immortality of his name as the Man of Ross. It was as a most extensive and unostentatious benefactor of his species that Pope enshrined John Kyrle in undying verse, and gave his name to all coming time.
The portraits of the Man of Ross display a regular, well-formed countenance, rather square in general outline, and strikingly expressive
* The most recent accounts state that the mortality from cholera in London is frightful, and the skill of the best physicians is exercised in vain. In one week more than 2000 have died in that city alone. The disease is raging in different parts of the kingdom, among the poor and the rich.
of mild cheerfulness and benevolence. The brow is open and expansive. In person, he was tall, thin, and well-shaped, and during his whole life his usual attire was a suit of brown, after the fashion of the day. He maintained his health by regular exercise from his youth upwards, turning his own hands to service in his favourite pursuits of horticulture and planting. A spade and a watering-pot were usually seen in his grasp, as he passed backwards and forwards between his dwelling and his fields. Having speedily increased his means, as we have said, and made his income respectable, he lived well, and enjoyed himself frequently with his friends, though much company was not agreeable to him. It was his practice, as his habits became fixed, to entertain a party of his acquaintances on every market-day, and on every fair-day, in the town of Ross. Nine, eleven, or thirteen (he seemed partial to odd numbers,) were the usual sum of the guests at the invitation dinners. His dishes were plain and good, and the only beverages which appeared on his table were malt liquor and cider. At ordinary times, moreover, he loved dearly to see his neighbours dropping in upon him in the evening, was cheerful always with them, enjoyed a pleasant tale, and was uniformly discomposed and sad when time brought round the parting hour. His character is truthfully depicted in the following lines of Pope. Throughout his long life of eighty-seven years, his benevolence did not tire-his care of the poor was incessant, he settled their disputes and ministered to their relief.
"But all our praises why should lords engross?
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more."
The town which Mr. Kyrle so long adorned was justly proud of him during his life and deeply reverenced his memory when he was laid in