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He for her parents and her lover call'd.
The various scenie imagine. How his troops
Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant ;
While, strech'd below, the trembling suppliant lay
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions-fear,
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief,
Anxiety and love in every shape.
To these, as different sentiments succeeded,
As mix'd emotions, when the man divine,
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke.
"We both are young-both charm'd. The right of war
Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power;
With whom 1 could, in the most sacred ties,
Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans,
Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer;
Then, take her to thy soul! and with her, take
Thy liberty and kingdom. In return,
I ask but this-when you behold these eyes,
These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome."
Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute;
While the loud camp, and all the clust'ring crowd
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts ;
Fame took th' alarm, and through resounding Spain,
Blew fast the fair report; which more than arms,
Admiring nations to the Romans gain'd.
XII-Pope's humorous Complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot, of the Impertinence of Scribblers.
SHUT, shut the door; good John-fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker-say, I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dogstar rages! Nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out.
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets; through my grot they glide :
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge:
No place is sacred; not the church is free;
E'en Sunday shines no sabbathday to me.
Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme--
"Happy to catch me just at dinner time."
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma!-either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and ti'd down to judge how wretched I.!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd,
Drove them before him thunderstruck pursu'd
With terrors and with furies to the bounds
And chrystal wall of heaven; Which opening wide
Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclos'd
Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight
Struck them with horror backward; but far worse
Urg'd them behind. Headlong themselves they threw
Down from the verge of heaven; eternal wrath
Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.
IX-Alexander's Feast; or the Power of Music-An Ode for St. Cicilia's Day.-DRYDEN.
'TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son.-
Aloft in awful state,
The godlike hero sat
On his imperial throne.
His valient peers were plac'd around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound;
So should desert in arms be crown'd.
The lovely Thais by his side,
Sat like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave, deserve the fair.
Timotheus plac'd on high,
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch the lyre;
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above;
(Such is the power of mighty love!)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And stan p'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
The list ning crowd admire the lofty sound
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity; the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravish'd ears the monarch hears,
Assumes the god, affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bachus, then, the sweet musician sung ;
Of Bachus. ever fair and ever young.
The jolly god in triumph cones!
Sound the trumpet; beat the drums ;
And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone, When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd, To thee he gave the heavenly birth, And bade thee form her infant mind, Stern, rugged nurse thy rigid lore With patience, many a year she bore; What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others woe. Scar'd at thy frown, terrific, fly Selfpleasing folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer Friend, the flatt'ring Foe,
By vain Prosperity receiv'd,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'di Wisdom, in sable garb array'd,
Immers'd in rapturous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid,
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the general friend ;
With Justice, to herself severe;
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear.
Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head,
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand !
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful band,
(As by the impious thou art seen)
With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.
Thy form benign. Oh, Goddess! wear;
Thy milder influence impart;
Thy philosophic train be there,
To soften, not to wound my heart.
Thy gen'rous spark, extinct, revive;
Teach me to love and to forgive:
Exact my own defects to scan;
What others are, to feel; and know myself a man.
XIV. The passions-An ODE-COLLINS.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell ;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, -
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness rul❜d the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures, wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd: A solemn, strange and mingled air:
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song:
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair ::
And longer had she sung, but with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.
He threw his blood stain'd sword in thunder down And with a withering-look,
The war denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between
Dejected Pity at his side,
Her soul subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight-seen'd bursting from His
Thy numbers Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd:
And, now it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate.
With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes, by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul,
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Through glades and glooms, the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
(Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing)
In hollow murmurs died away,
But, O. how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness. a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;
The ork crown'd Sisters, and their chaste ey'd Queen.
Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown exercise rejoic'd to hear;
And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen spear:
Last came Joy's extatic trial,
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address’d-
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol;
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While as his fiving fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound)
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.