The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, CHORUS. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, Now strike the golden lyre again : A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Has raised up his head; As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries, See the furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain, Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy ; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy ! CHORUS. And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute; WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the cords bewildered laid, Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire, With woful measures wan Despair, Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, And longer had she sung Revenge impatient rose ; but, with a frown, The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best; To some unwearied minstrel dancing, He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, The doubling drum with furious heat; Her soul-subduing voice applied, from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed, called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive E'en all at once together found, soul; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Oro'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Love of peace, and lonely musing, But O, how altered was its sprightlier tone Cecilia's mingled world of sound. WILLIAM COLLINS. A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold and hot and moist and dry What passion cannot Music raise and quell? That spoke so sweetly and so well. The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, And mortal alarms, The double double double beat Of the thundering drum The soft complaining flute Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame. But 0, what art can teach, Notes inspiring holy love, Orpheus could lead the savage race; Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared Mistaking earth for heaven. GRAND CHORUS. As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, A worm a God! I tremble at myself, Triumphantly distressed! What joy! what dread! What can preserve my life? or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't confine me there. DR. EDWARD YOUNG. But, lovely child! thy magic stole To me thy parents are unknown; TO A SLEEPING CHILD. ART thou a thing of mortal birth Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost mid a gleam of golden hair? O, can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death? Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent? Or art thou, what thy form would seem, A human shape I feel thou art Those tremors both of soul and sense MOTHER AND CHILD. THE wind blew wide the casement, and within- FORTUNE. FRAGMENT FROM "FANNY." BUT Fortune, like some others of her sex, Delights in tantalizing and tormenting. One day we feed upon their smiles, the next So strength first made a way; Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting. Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure: Eve never walked in Paradise more pure Than on that morn when Satan played the devil With her and all her race. A lovesick wooer Ne'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil, Than Cleopatra was to Antony The day she left him on the Ionian sea. The serpent-loveliest in his coiléd ring, With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies The tints of the rainbow-bears upon his sting The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath Are tropic winds before the voice of death Is heard upon the waters, summoning The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years To do its task of woe. The clouds that fling The lightning brighten ere the bolt appears; The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud Upon that battle-morn whose night-dews wet his shroud; The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; 'T WAS whispered in heaven, and muttered in hell, The leaves of Autumn smile when fading fast; And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; The swan's last song is sweetest. On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'T was seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder; 'T will be found in the spheres, when riven asunder; 'T was given to man with his earliest breath, Assists at his birth, and attends him in death; Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, · And though unassuming, with monarchs is crowned. In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, MISS FANSHAWE. THE GIFTS OF GOD. WHEN God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, Let us (said he) pour on him all we can : Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie, Contract into a span. FATHER LAND AND MOTHER TONGUE OUR Father Land! and wouldst thou know Why we should call it Father Land? It is that Adam here below Was made of earth by Nature's hand. |