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And the last, which speaks for itself"Here lyeth the body of the Reverend Mr. ANDREW THOMPSON, who was born at Stonehive, in Scotland, and was Minister of this Parish seven years, and departed this life the 11 of September, 1719, in ye 46 yeare of his age, leaving ye character of a sober religious man."

The above is followed on the tomb by a long Latin inscription, which has been so mutilated by some modern Goth, or Goths, that it is impossible to decipher it intelligibly.

We could fill pages with interesting memoranda from the history of old parishes in Virginia, but a few more, in relation to the present subject, must close our article at this time. Should this be received with favor, perhaps the writer may make more diligent efforts to rescue, from the perishing records of County Courts, and crumbling stones, and family relics, materiel for the future historian of the Church, to weave into his song of her progress in our "own green forest land,"

from gloom to glory." A closer inspection. of the records will doubtless enable him to trace an "unbroken succession," of parish ministers from 1621 to the present time. The following, however, is as near as can now be ascertained:-In 1664, Rev. Mr. Mallory; who was succeeded, in 1665, by Rev. Mr. Justinian Aylmere; succeeded, in 1667, by Rev. Mr. Jeremiah Taylor; succeeded, in 1677, by Rev. Mr. John Page, who left the colony about 1687; succeeded, in 1687, by Rev. Mr. Cope Doyley; in 1712, Rev. Mr. Andrew Thompson, who died 1719; in 1731, Rev. Mr. William Fife, who died in 1756; succeeded, in 1756, by Rev. Thomas Warrington, who died 1770; succeeded, in 1771, by Rev. William Selden, who either died, or resigned, in 1783; succeeded, in 1783, by Rev. William Nixon. The vestry-book here is defaced for some years, owing, I presume, to the fact that in the change in the Church, from that of England, to the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States, begun in 1783, consummated in 1787, and the first convention in Philadelphia, July 28, 1789, with Bishops presiding, of our own, this parish did not procure a minister during that period; but the following inscription, on a stone near the east entrance to the church, will show that very soon after the change spoken of above, the parish was blessed with regular rectoral services:

"Sacred to the memory of the Rev. JOHN JONES SPOONER, Rector of the Church in Elizabeth City County; whe departed this life September 15, 1799, aged forty-two years."

And then to the right of the door entering from the east, another bearing the following: "Departed this life, January 17, 1806, the Rev. BENJAMIN BROWN, Rector of Elizabeth City Parish, aged thirtynine years."

On November 17, 1806, the vestry elected the Rev. Robert Seymour Sims, and August 11, 1810, they elected the Rev. George Holson. During the last war with Great Britain (1813), Hampton was sacked, its inhabitants pillaged-one of its aged citizens sick and infirm, wantonly murdered in the arms of his wife--and other crimes committed by

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ox.

The citizens and friends of the church were blessed with the energetic aid of the Rev. Mark L. Chivers, chaplain at Fortress Monroe, who for several years officiated once on each Sabbath in Hampton. It is not saying too much when we assert that mainly through his efforts, the church was resuscitated. The present rector, the writer of this, with pleasure makes this acknowledginent.

With the zeal and energy which were brought to bear, the results were most favorable; and on Friday morning, the 8th of January, 1830, a crowd might have been seen wending its way to those venerable walls. A rude staging was erected for the prominent actors, and on that platform knelt a white

hireling soldiers, and by brutalized officers, over which the chaste historian must draw a veil. The church of God itself was not spared during the saturnalia of lust and violence. | His temple was profaned, and His altars desecrated. What British ruthlessness had left scathed and prostrate, was soon looked upon with neglect. The moles and the bats held their revels undisturbed within its once hallowed courts, and the "obscene owl nestled and brought forth in the ark of the covenant." The church in which our fathers worshipped, stabled the horse and stalled the The very tombs of the dead, sacred in all lands, became a slaughter ground of the butcher, and an arena for pugilistic contests. A few faithful ones wept when they remem-haired soldier of the cross, the venerable Bishbered Zion, in her day of prosperity, and beheld her in her hour of homeless travail, and to their cry, "How long, oh Lord how long!" the following preamble, accompanying a subscription list, tells the story of her woes, and breathes the language of her returning hope: "Whereas, from a variety of circumstances, the Episcopal Church in the town of Hampton, is in a state of dilapidation, and will ere long moulder into ruins, unless some friendly hand be extended to its relief, and in the opinion of the vestry, the only method that can be pursued to accomplish the laudable design of restoring it to the order in which our forefathers bequeathed it to their children, is to resort to subscription; and they do earnestly solicit pecuniary aid from all its friends in in the full belief, that an appeal will not be made in vain. And hoping that God will put it into the hearts of the people to be benevolently disposed toward our long neglected Zion."

This bears date April 28, 1826.

op of Virginia, his face radiant with "faith,
hope, and charity." The ritual of the church
was heard once more in that old pile, and in
answer to the invitation, "Oh, come, let us
sing unto the Lord, let us heartily rejoice in
the strength of our salvation," there might
soon have been heard those beautiful words:

"And wilt thou, O Eternal God,
On earth establish thy abode?

Then look propitious from thy throne,
And take this temple for thine own."
In the archives of the church the event is
thus recorded:

"Know all men by these presents, that we, Richard Channing Moore, D. D., by Divine permission, Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Diocese of Virginia, did consecrate to the service of Almighty God, on Friday, January 8th, in the year of our Lord 1830, St. John's Church, in the town of Hampton, Elizabeth City County. In which church the services of the Protestant Episcopal Church are to be performed agreeably A committee of the citizens of Hampton to rubrics in such case made and provided. It is alwas appointed to wait on the venerable Bish- ways to be remembered, that Saint John's Church op Moore, to solicit his advice upon the best thus consecrated and set apart to the worship of manner of repairing the Protestant Episcopal Almighty God, is by the act of consecration thus Church in Hampton, and beg of him his par-lowed uses, and to be considered sacred to the performed, separated from all worldly and unhalticular aid and patronage in carrying into ef- service of the Holy and undivided Trinity. fect the same." The letter below will show how that "old man eloquent," felt on the subject. It is not among the Bishop's pub-fixed my seal. lished letters, and is without date:

66

"MY DEAR BRETHREN:-My long confinement at the north prevented my reception of your letter, until very lately; and the feebleness of my frame, since my return, must apologize to you for any apparent neglect which has attended my reply. It will afford me the greatest pleasure to assist yon with my counsel in the reorganization of your church, and with that purpose in view, I will en deavor to visit Hampton in a short time, of which you shall be duly notified, when we can converse at large on the subject proposed for my consideration. To see that temple repaired in which the former inhabitants of Hampton worshipped God, and to see you placed under the care of a faithful and judicious clergyman, will inspire my mind with the greatest delight. May the Almighty smile on the proposed design, and carry it into full and complete effect. Believe me, gentlemen, very affectionately, your friend and pastor,

RICHARD CHANNING MOORE."

year above written, subscribed my hand and af"In testimony whereof, I have on the day and

[Seal.]

RICHARD CHANNING MOORE." The Rev. Mr. Chivers having resigned his afternoon appointment, after officiating for sixteen years, and ministering to them in their day of destitution, the Rev. John P. Bausman was elected Rector in 1843, and resigned in 1845; the Rev. William H. Good was elected in 1845, and continued until the close of 1848; and the parish remained without regular rectoral services, until the 1st of January, 1851, when the writer took charge; since which time an organ (the first one) has been put up, new pews have been added, and money enough obtained to make permanent and comfortable repairs. If the design of the true friends of the church, to make it a temple in which generations to come may worship God in comfort, fail, the fault and the punishment will lie with those who "knew their duty and did it not."

BROODING-PLACES ON THE FALKLAND | to take care of themselves.

ISLANDS.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL FROM THE GERMAN.

Y the name of "brooding-places," the navi

of

selected by various sea-fowls, where they in common build their nests, lay their eggs, and bring up their young. Here they assemble in immense masses, and in the laying out and construction of these places, exhibit great caution, judgment, and industry.

When a sufficient number have assembled on the shore, they appear first to hold a consultation, and then to set about executing the great purpose for which they have come together. First, they choose out a level spot of sufficient extent, often of four or five acres, near the beach. In this they avoid ground that is too stony, which would be dangerous to their eggs. Next, they deliberate on the plan of their future camp, after which they lay out distinctly a regular parallelogram, offering room enough for the brother and sisterhood, somewhere from one to five acres. One side of the place is bounded by the sea, and is always left open for entrance and exit; the other three sides are inclosed with a wall of

stones and roots.

The male bird

goes to the sea for fish, and when he has satisfied his hunger hurries back and takes the place of the female, while she in turn goes in

ing places, they know how to manage it so as not to leave their eggs for a moment uncovered. When, for instance, the male comes back from fishing, he nestles close beside the female and gradually crowds her off the nest with such care as to cover the eggs completely with his feathers without exposing them to the air at all. In this way they guard their eggs against being stolen by the other females, which are so greedy to raise large families that they seize every chance to rob the surrounding nests. The royal penguin is exceedingly cunning in this sort of trick, and never loses an occasion that is offered. In this way it often happens that the brood of this bird, on growing up turns out to be of two or three different species, a sure proof that the parents were no honester than their neighbors.

on a parade day. Then all at once, the whole brooding-place is in continuous commotion, a flock of the penguins come back from the sea and waddle rapidly along through the narrow paths, to greet their mates after this brief separation; another company are on the way to get food for themselves or to bring in provisions. At the same time the cove is darkened by an immense cloud of albatrosses, that continually hover above the brooding-place, descending from their excursions or mounting into the air to go upon them. One can look at these birds for hours, and not grow weary of gazing, observing and wondering at their busy social life.

It is not only interesting but instructive and even touching to watch from a little distance the life and movements of these broodingplaces. You can then see the birds walking up and down the exterior path or public promThese industrious feathered workers first enade in pairs, or even four, six, or eight toof all remove from the place all obstacles together, looking very like officers promenading their design; they take up the stones with their bills and carry them to the boundaries to compose the wall. Within this wall they build a perfectly smooth and even foot-path some six or eight feet wide, which is used by day as a public promenade, and by night for the back and forward march of the sentinels. After they have in this way completed their embankments on the three landward sides, they lay out the remaining part of the interior into equal little quadrangles, separated from each other by narrow foot-paths, crossing at right angles. In each crossing of these paths an albatross builds his nest, and in the middle of each quadrangle, a penguin, so that every albatross is surrounded by four penguins, and every penguin has albatross on four sides as neighbors. In this way the. whole place is regularly occupied, and only at some distance are places left free for other sea-fowl, such as the green comorant and the so-called Nelly.

Though the penguin and albatross live so near and in such intimacy they not only build their nests in very different fashions, but the penguin plunders the nest of its friend whenever it has an opportunity. The nest of the penguin is a simple hollow in the ground, just deep enough to keep its eggs from rolling out, while the albatross raises a little hill of earth, grass, and muscles, eight or ten inches high, with the diameter of a water pail, and builds its nest on the top, whence it looks down on its next neighbors and friends.

None of the nests in the entire broodingplace is left vacant an instant until the eggs are hatched, and the young ones old enough VOL. V.-NO. 1.-4

as

ARIADNE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
BY E. W. ELLSWORTH.

L

[Scene, part of the island of Naxos. Enter, sundry Dryads, habited fair young maidens adorned with flowers, and bearing in their hands branches of trees.]

DRYAD: We shadowy Oceanides,

Jove's warders of the island trees,
The tufted pillars tall and stout,
And all the bosky camp about,
Maintain our lives in sounding shades
Of old æolían colonnades;
But post about the neighbor land
In woof of insubstantial wear:
Our ways are on the water sand,
Our joy is in the desert air.
The very best of our delights
Are by the moon of summer nights.
Darkness to us is holiday:

When winds and waves are up at play,
When, on the thunder-beaten shore,
The swinging breakers split and roar,
Then is the moment of our glory,
In shadow of a promontory,
To trip and skip it to and fro,
Even as the flashing bubbles go.
Or on the bleaker banks that lie,
For the salt seething wash, too high,
Where rushes grow so sparse and green

With baked and barren floors between.

We glance about in mazy quire,
With much of coming and retire;
Nor let the limber measure fail,
Till, down behind the ocean bed,
The night dividing star is sped,
And Cynthia stoops the marish vale,
Wound in clouds and vigil pale,
Trailing the curtains of the west
About her ample couch of rest.
Thus, nightly on, we lead the year
Through all the constellated sphere.

But more obscure, in brakes and bowers,
During the sun-appointed hours,

We lodge, and are at rest, and see,
Dimly, the day's festivity,
Nor hail the spangled jewel set
Upon Aurora's coronet;

Nor trail in any morning dew;

Nor roam the park, nor tramp the pool
Of lucid waters pebble cool,
Nor list the satyr's far halloo.
Noon, and the glowing hours, seem
Mutations of a laboring dream.
Yet subject, still, to Jove's decree,
That governs, from the Olympian doors,
The populous and lonely shores,
We do a work of destiny:
When any mortal, sorely spent,
Girt with the thorns of discontent,
Or care, or hapless love, invades,
This ancient neighborhood of shades,
Our gracious leave is to dispense,
Of woods, the slumbrous influence;
The waverings and the murmurings
Of umber shades and leafy wings;

Through all the courts of sense applying,

With sights, and sounds, and odorous sighing, To the world-wearied soul of man,

The gentle universal Pan

As now we must: the roots around,

Of forests clutch a certain sound

Of weary feet; go, sisters, out:

Some one is pining, hereabout.

II.

[Another part of the Island. Enter Ariadne.]

Ariadne: Here, in the heart of this sea-moated isle,
Where we, but last night, made a summer's lodge
Of transient rest from many pendulous days
Of swinging on the sick unquiet deep,
Why left he me, so lone, so unattended?
What converse had he with felonious Night,
That underneath her dark consenting cloak,
He stole unchallenged from his Ariadne?
If, out of hope, I cannot answer that,
Slant-eyed Conjecture at my elbow stands,
To whisper me of things I would not hear.
Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone!
Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone!
Oh how shall I, an unacquainted maid,
So uninformed of whereabout I am,
And in a wild completely solitary,
Hope to find out my strangely absent lord!
Sadness there is, and an unquiet fear,
Within my heart, to trace these hereabouts
Of idle woods, unthreaded labyrinths,

Rude mannered brooks, unpastured meadow sides,
All vagrant, voiceless, pathless, echoless.
Oh for the farthest breath of mortal sound!
From lacqueyed hall, or folded peasant hut,-
Some noontide echo sweetly voluble;
Some song of toil reclining from the heat,
Or low of kine, or neigh of tethered steeds,
Or honest clamor of some shepherd dog,
Laughter, or cries, or any living breath,
To make inroad upon this dreariness,
Methinks no shape of savage insolence,
No den unblest, nor hour inopportune,
Could daunt me now, nor warn my maiden foot
From friendly parle, that am distract of heart,
With doubt, desertion, utter loneliness.
Death would I seek to run from lonely fear,
And deem a hut a heaven, with company.
Yea, now to question of my true heart's lord,
And of the ports and alleys of this isle,
Which way they lead the clueless wanderer
To fields suburban, and the towers of men,

I would confront the strangest things that haunt

In horrid shades of brooding desolation:

Griffin, or satyr, sphinx, or sybil ape,

Or lop-eared demon from the dens of night,
Let loose to caper out of Acheron.

Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone!

Who left that crock of water at my side?
Who stole my dog that loved no one but me?
Why was the tent unstruck, I unawaked,
I left, most loved, and last to be forgotten
By much obtaining, much indebted Theseus?
Left to sleep on, to dream and slumber on;
Nothing to know, save fancies of the air,
While he, so strangly covert in his thoughts,
Was softly stirring to be gone from me.
Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone!
Hast thou, in pleasant sport, deserted me?
Is it a whim, a jest, a trick of task,
To mesh me in another labyrinth?
Could Theseus so make mirth of Ariadne?
Unless he did, I would not think he could.
And yet I will believe he is in jest.
More false than that, he could not be to me,
Since false to me, to his own self were false.
Now do I hold in hope what I have heard.

That love will sometimes cunning masks put on,
Speak with strange tongues, and wear odd liveries,
Transform himself to seemings most unlike,
And still be love in fearful opposites.

So may it be, but my immediate fear
Jostles that hope aside, and I remember

Of what my tutor Etion did forewarn me.

Oh fond old man! if thou didst know me here,

Thou wouldst move heaven and earth to have me home.

Much was his care of my uncaring youth,

And, with a reverend and considerate wit,

He curbed the frolic of my pupilage,
Less by the bridle, than the feeding it
With stories ending in moralities,
With applications and similitudes
Tacked to the merest leaf I looked upon,
Till, so it was, we two did love each other,
The sage and child, with mutual amity.
Oft, hand in hand, we passed my father's gate,
At evening, when the horizontal day
Chequered his farewell on the western wall;
Shying the court, where, for the frolic lords,
Under the profaned silence of the rose,
The syrinx, and the stringed sonorous shell,
Governed the twinkling heeled Terpsichore.
We softly went and turned towards the bay,
And found another world, contemplative
Of shells and pebbles by the ocean shore.
I do remember, once, on such an eve,
Pacing the polished margin of the deep,

We found two weeds that had embraced each other,
And talked of friendship, love and sympathy.

My pupil sweet, said he, beware of Love:

For thou wilt shortly be besieged by him,
From the four winds of heaven, because thou art
Daughter of Minos, and already married

To expectation of a royal dower.

But beware! for, listen what I say,

By strong presentments I have moved thy father
Bating a fair and well intending nay,
To leave thy love to thine unmuffled eye.
This is rare scope, my girl, O use it rarely,
Be slow and nice in thy sweet liberty,
And let discretion honor thee in choice.
For love is like a cup with dregs at bottom !
Hand it with care, and pleasant it shall be-
Snatch it, and thou mayst find it bitterness.
And now, my soon, my all sufficient lord,
How shall I answer old Sir Oracle?
It is too true that I have snatched my love,
And taste already of its bitterness.

But trifle not with love, my sportful Theseus.
Affection, when it bears an outward eye,
Be it of love, or social amity,

Or open-lidded general charity,
Becomes a holy universal thing-

The beauty of the soul, which, therein lodged,
Surpasses every outward comeliness-
Makes fanes of shaggy shapes, and, of the fair,
Such presences as fill the gates of heaven.
Why is the dog, that knows no stint of heart,
But roars a welcome like an untamed bear,
And leaps a dirty-footed fierce caress,

More valued than the sleek smooth mannered cat,
That will not out of doors, whoever comes,
But hugs the fire in graceful idleness?
Birds of a glittering gilt, that lack a tongue,
Are shamed to drooping with the euphony
Of fond expression, and the voice beneath
The russet jacket of the soul of song.
What is that girdle of the Queen of Love,
Wherewith, as with the shell of Orpheus,
Things high and humble, the enthroned gods,
And tenants of the far unvisited huts

Of wildernesses, she alike subdues

Unto the awe of perfect harmony?

What else but sweetness tempered all one way,
And looks of sociable benignity?

Which when she chooseth to be all herself,
She doth put on, and in the act thereof,
Buch thousand graces lacquey her about,
And in her smile such plenitude of joy-
The extreme perfection of the divine gods-
Shines affable, as, to partake thereof,
Hath oftentimes set Heaven in uproar.
By these, and many special instances,
It doth appear, or may be plainly shown,
That, of all life, affection is the savor--
The soul of it--and beauty is but dross:
Being but the outer iris-film of love,
The fleeting shade of an eternal thing.
Beauty-the cloudy mock of Tantalus;
Daughter of Time, betrothed unto Death,
Who, all so soon as the lank anarch old
Fingers her palm, and lips her for his bride,
Suffers collapse, and straightway doth become
A hideous coinment of mortality.

Know this, my lord, while thou dost run from me,
The tide of true love hath its hours of ebb,

If the attendant orb withdraw his light;
And though there be a love as strong as death,
There is a pride stronger than death or love;
And whether 'tis that I am royal born,
Or kingly blooded, or that once I was
Sometimes a mistress in my father's court,
I have of patience much-not overmuch-
And thou hadst best beware the boundary.
Oh thou too cruel and injurions thorn!

What hast thou done to my poor innocent hand!
Thou art like Theseus, thou dost make me bleed;
Offenceless I, yet thou dost make me bleed.
This scratch I shall remember well, my lord!
Deceiver false! deserter! runaway!

My quick-heeled slave! my loose ungrateful bird!
Where'er thou art, or if thou hear or no,

Know that thou art from this time given o'er,
To tarry and return what time thou wilt.

It is most like that thou dost lurk not far,
In twilight of some envious cave or bower.
Well, if thou dost-why-lurk thy heart's content.
Poor rogue! thou art not worth this weariness.
I will not flutter more, nor cry to thee.
Since thou art fledged, and toppled from the nest,
Go-pick thy crumbs where thou canst find them best.

III.

Once more, once more, O yet again once more,
Spent is my breath with fear and weariness!
Vain toil it is to track this tangled wild-
This rank o'ergrown imprisoned solitude-
Whose very flowers are fetters in my way;
Where I am chained about with vines and briers,
Led blindfold on through mazes tenantless,
And not a friendly echo answers me.

Oh for a foot as airy as the wing

Of the young brooding dove, to overpass

On swift commission of my true heart's love,
All metes and bournes of this lone wilderness:
So should I quickly find my truant lord.
But, as it is, I can no farther go.

What shall I do? despair? lie down and die?
If I give o'er my search I shall despair,

And if I do despair, I quickly die.

Avaunt Despair! I will not yet despair.
Begone, grim herald of oblivions Death!

Strong-pinioned Hope, embrace thy wings about me;
Shake not my fingers from thy golden chain.

Oh still bear up and pity Ariadne!

Alas! what hope have I but only Theseus,
And Theseus is not here to pity me.

Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone!
Thou dost forget that thou hast called me wife,
And with sweet influence of holy vows
Grappled and grafted me unto thyself.

Oh how shall I, not knowing where thou art,
Be all myself-thou dost dissever me.
Yonder I'll rest awhile, for now I see,
Through meshes of the internetted leaves,
A little plot, girt with a living wall:
A sylvan chamber, that the frolic Pan
Has built and bosomed with a leafy dome,

And windowed with a narrow glimpse of heaven.
Its floor, sky-litten with the noontide sun,
Shows garniture of many colored flowers,
More dainty than the broidered webs of Tyre;
And all about, from beeches, oaks and pines,
Recesses deep of vernal solitude,

Come sounds of calm that woo my ruffled spirits
To a resigned and quiet contemplation.

Yond brook, that, like a child, runs wide astray, Sings and skips on, nor knows its loneliness;

A squirrel chatters at a doorless nut:

A hammer bird drums on his hollow bark;
And bits of winged life, with a ry voices,
Tinkle like fountains in a corridor.
Fair haunt of peace, ye quiet cadences,
Ye leafy caves of sadness and sweet sounds,
That have no feeling nor a fellowship
With the rash moods of terror and of pain,
I did not think ye could, in such an hour,
So steal from me, as in a sleep, a dream-
What is't that comes between me and the light?
Protect me, Jove! Lo, what untended flowers,
That all night long, like little wakeful babes,
Darkly repine, and weep themselves asleep,
In the orient morning lift their pretty eyes,
Tear smiling, to behold the sun their sire
Enter the gilded chambers of the east-
Strange droopingness! What quality of air?

[Ariadne falls asleep.-Enter, the Dryads, as before. 1st Dryad: Sprinkle out of flower bells Mortal sense entrapping spells;

Make no sound

On the ground;

Strew and lap and lay around. Gnat nor snail

Here assail,

Beetle, slug, nor spider here, Now descend,

Nor depend,

Off from any thorny spear.

2d Dryad: So conclude. Whatever seems, We have her in a chain of dreams.

3d Dryad: As fair as foreign! Who is here

In disarray of princely gear?

Here were a lass whose royal port

Might make an awe in Heaven's court;

But sorrowing beauty testifies

In tears that journey from her eyes,

To touches of interior pain;

And on her hand a sanguine stain.
Hair unlooped and sandals torn,

Zone unloosened from its bourne;

Surely some wandering bride of Sorrow.

4th Dryad: So let her sleep, and bid good morrow

1st Dryad: But, sisters, me it doth astound,

What maid it is that we have bound,

And Bacchus not, nor Ceres found.

2d Dryad: Bacchus has gone to Arcady;
Where certain swains, that merry be,
Have found a happy thunder stone,
That Jove has cast the vale upon;
So take occasion to be blest,
And Bacchus was invited guest.
His shaggy crew have helped the plan.
Silenus made the pipes of Pan,

The Satyrs teased the vines about,

And Bacchus sent a lubber lout,

Who lurked, and stole, ere wink of moon,

The heedless Amalthea's horn.
Now all are gone to Arcady,
Head bent on rousing jollity.
Now riot rout will be, anon,
That shall the very sun aston,
By waters whist, and on the leas,
Under the old fantastic trees.

The oldest swain with longest cane,
And sad experience in his brain,
On such mad mirth shall fail to wink,
And grimly go aside to think.

3d Dryad: But, cedar-cinctured sister, say, What news has winged our Queen away?

2d Dryad: Ceres has gone to see the feast
Made by the King of all the East;
Who breasts a beard so black and fair;
And breathes a wealth of gorgeous air,
Now all divided with Gulnare-
Whose odorous train came up from far,
Last night, at shut of evening star,
And filled, with pomp majestical,
The gardens and the palace hall
So Ceres runs to give them aid,
In likeness of an Indian maid-
Presents them each a dove apiece,
And wishes blessing and increase.

3d Dryad: Hark! hark! I hear her rolling car. Our Queen is not so very far.

4th Dryad: Now make your faces long, I ween Here comes our sweet majestic Queen.

[Enter Ceres, in likeness of a stately woman, bearing poppies and cars of wheat in her hands, and crowned with a wreath of flowers and berries Cares: What! loose, and chatting here at play,

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