He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of wo:

'Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

'Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'my father' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

'The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young;

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresess to the soft winds flung ;— But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

'And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,

If from this wo its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!'

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;

..

THE NEWSPAPER.-
-Cowper.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling, and loud hissing urn
Throws up a streaming column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not such his evening, who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed
And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not even critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read,

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;
What is it but a map of busy life,

Ist fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge,
That tempts Ambition. On the summit see
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,

And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Meanders lubricate the course they take;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved,
To ingross a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise ;
The dearth of information and good sense,
That it foretells us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there

With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth and ocean, plundered of their sweets,
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feasts, and favorite airs,
Ethereal journies, submarine exploits,
And Katerfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am still. The sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice, that make man a wolf to man;
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates; as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all,
Pay contribution to the store he gleans:
He sucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return-a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,

DIALOGUE.

From the Tragedy of Jane Shore.-Rowe.

LORD HASTINGS AND THE DUKE OF GLOSTER.

Gloster.

Hastings,

The State is out of tune; distracting fears,
And jealous doubts, jar in our public councils.
Amidst the wealthy city murmurs rise,
Lewd railings, and reproach on those that rule,
With open scorn of government; hence credit,
And public trust' twixt man and man are broke.
The golden streams of commerce are withheld,
Which fed the wants of needy hinds and artizans,
Who therefore curse the great, and threat rebellion.
Lord H. The resty knaves are overrun with ease,
As plenty ever is the nurse of faction;

If in good days, like these, the headstrong herd,
Grows madly wanton and repine, it is

Because the reins of power are held too slack,
And reverend authority of late

Has worn a face of mercy more than justice.

Glos. Beshrew my heart! but you have well divined The source of these disorders. Who can wonder, If riot and misrule o'erturn the realm,

When the crown sits upon a baby brow?

Plainly to speak, hence comes the general cry,

And sum of all complaint: 't will ne'er be well

With England (thus they talk) while children govern.

Lord H. 'Tis true the King is young: but what of that! We feel no want of Edward's riper years,

While Gloster's valour and most princely wisdom
So well support our infant sovereign's place,
His youth's support, and guardian to his throne.

Glos. The council (much I'm bound to thank 'em for 't)
Have placed a pageant sceptre in my hand,
Barren of power, and subject to control;
Scorned by my foes, and useless to my friends.
Oh, worthy lord! were mine the rule indeed,
I think, I should not suffer rank offence
At large to lord it in the common weal;
Nor would the realm be rent by discord thus,
Thus fear and doubt betwixt disputed titles.

Lord H. Of this I am to learn; as not supposing

A doubt like this.

Glos. Ay, marry, but there is—

And that of much concern.

Have you not heard
How, on a late occasion, the learned Doctor Shaw
Has moved the people much, about the lawfulness
Of Edward's issue? By right, grave authority
Of learning and religion, plainly proving,

A bastard scion never should be grafted
Upon a royal stock. *

Lord H. Ill befall

*

Such meddling priests, who kindle up confusion,
And vex the quiet world with their vain scruples!
By heaven, 't is done in perfect spite of peace.
Did not the king,

Our royal master, in concurrence

With his estates assembled, well determine

What course the sovereign rule should take henceforward?

When shall the deadly hate of faction cease?

When shall our long divided land have rest,

If every peevish, moody malecontent

Shall set the senseless rabble in an uproar,
Fright them with dangers, and perplex their brains
Each day with some fantastic, giddy change?

Glos. What if some patriot, for the public good,
Should vary from your scheme, new mould the state?
Lord H. Curse on the innovating hand attempts it!
Remember him, the villain, righteous Heaven,
In thy great day of vengeance! Blast the traitor
And his pernicious counsels; who, for wealth,
For power, the pride of greatness, or revenge,
Would plunge his native land in civil wars!
Glos. You go too far, my lord.

Lord H. Your highness' pardon-
Have we so soon forgot those days of ruin,

When York and Lancaster drew forth their battles;
When, like a matron butchered by her sons,

Our groaning country bled at every vein;
When murders, rapes, and massacres prevailed;
When churches, palaces and cities blazed;