Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries: See the snakes how they rear, How they hiss in the air! And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand, These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain, Give the vengeance due Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods!The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with aeal to destroy: Thaïs led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy. Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; 'He rais'd a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down. ODE To the picus Memory of the accomplished young Lady, Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW, Excellent in the two Sister-Arts of Poesy and Painting. THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the Skies, Thou tread'st with seraphims, the vast abyss: Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse But such as thy own voice did practise here, If by traduction came thy mind, A soul so charming from a stock so good; Was form'd, at first with myriads more, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heav'n-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore; Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. May we presume to say, that at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clustering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, Heaven had not leisure to renew : O gracious God! how far have we (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own) To' increase the streaming ordures of the stage! Art she had none, yet wanted none, She might our boasted stores defy : Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read. And to be read herself she need not fear; Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, Light as the vapours of a morning-dream; So cold herself, while she such warmth express'd, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream. Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, content To manage well that mighty government; But what can young ambitious souls confine? A plenteous province, and alluring prey. And the old fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd. For poets frequent inroads there had made, And perfectly could represent The shape, the face, with every lineament, And all the large domains which the dumb sister sway'd; All bow'd beneath her government, Receiv'd in triumph wheresoe'er she went. Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, her mind, The silvan scenes of herds and flocks, The ruins, too, of some majestic piece, } The scene then chang'd, with bold erected look As, in that day she took the crown from sacred hands, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the Queen. |