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Sat fair-proportioned on her polished limbs,
III. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Apennine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises, far from human eye, And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourished blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia ; till, at length; compelled By strong Necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains Palemon was, the generous, and the rich; Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times.
“She looks, methinks,
Now to the dust gone down; his houses, lands,
VI. When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acasto, who can speak The mingled passions that surprised his heart, And through his nerves in shivering transport ran? Then blazed his smothered flame, avowed, and bold; “ And art thou, then, Acasto’s dear remains ? She, whom my restless gratitude has sought, So long in vain? Oh, heavens! the very same, The softened image of my noble friend, Alive his every look, his every feature, More elegantly touched. Sweeter than Spring! Thou sole surviving blossom from the root That nourished up my fortune! Say, ah, where, In what sequestered desert hast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven? Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair ; Though poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain, Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years ?
VII. “Oh, let me now into a richer soil Transplant thee safe! where vernal suns and showers Diffuse their warmest, largest influence; And of my garden be the pride and joy! Ill it befits thee, oh, it ill befits Acasto's daughter, his whose open stores, Though vast, were little to his ample heart,
The father of a country, thus to pick
APOS'TROPHE, literally, a turning away from (APO, from, and STROPHE, a turning), is the name applied to a digression in discourse, where the speaker suddenly addresses some one who is dead or absent, as if alive or present; or some inanimate object, as though having the qualities that belong to intelligent beings.
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan-
* See next Exercise.
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
They melt into the yeast of waves, which mai
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow:
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
GEORGE GORDON BYRON (Lord Byron) was born in London, January 22d, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, in Greece, April 19th, 1824. In his nineteenth year, on leaving Cambridge University, where his course had been marked by an intractable disposition, he co:nmenced his career as an author by publishing the “Hours of Idleness.” It was criticized with great severity by the Edinburgh Review, to which attack he replied with still greater severity in a caustic satire, entitled “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." His life, after this, was marked by great misfortunes, occasioned chiefly by his own wild and wanton conduct; but it was distinguished by a series of political productions which have been more admired and more condemned than those, perhaps, of any other writer, whether living or dead. His strange lot, and his stranger career, are admirably sketched in the present Exercise.
SKETCH OF LORD BYRON.
MACAULAY. 1. The pretty fable by which the Duchess of Orleans illustrates the character of her son the regent, might, with little chang?, be applied to Byron. All the fairies, save one, had been bidden to his cradle. All the gossips had been profuse of their gifts. One had bestowed nobility, another genius, a third beauty. The malignant elf who had been uninvited, came last, and, unable to reverse what her sisters had done for their favor ite, had mixed up a curse with every blessing.
2. In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his character, in his very person, there was a strange union of oppo