Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, Quite vanquish'd him. |
Then burst his mighty heart、;|
And, in his mantle muffling up his face, | E'en at the base of Pompey's statue,
(Which all the while ran blood!) great Cæsar fell. | Ò what a fall was there, my countrymen! | Then I, and you', and all of us, fell down, | | Whilst bloody treason flourish'da over us. ] O now you weep; and I perceive you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. | Kind, souls! what! | weep you when you but behold Our Cæsar's ves'ture wounded? | Look you here ! | Here is himself', | marr'd, as you see, by traitors. | Good friends, | sweet friends! | let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny — ]
They that have done this deed, are honourable! | What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, That made them do it- they are wise and honourable; | And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you! |
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: | I am no orator, as Brutus is; |
But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well', | That gave me public leave to speak of him. |
For I have neither wit', nor words', nor worth', j Ac'tion, nor utterance, nor power of speech', | To stir men's blood: | I only speak right on. ] I tell you that which you yourselves do know; | Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, | poor, poor, dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony | Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cæsar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise in mutiny. I
Sylph of the blue, and beaming eye!] The Muses' fondest wreaths are thine, The youthful heart beats warm, and high, | And joys to own thy power divine! | Thou shinest o'er the flowery path
Of youth; and all is pleasure there! | Thou soothest man, whene'er he hath | An eye of gloom a brow of care. I
To youth, thou art the early morn', | With "light, and melody, and song," To gild his path'; | each scene adorn', | And swiftly speed his time along. | To man, thou art the gift of Heav'n, | A boon from regions bright above; His lot, how dark, had ne'er been giv'n | To him the light of woman's love!|
When o'er his dark'ning brow, the storm, Is gath'ring in its power, and might', | The radiant beam of woman's form', | Shines through the cloud', and all is light! | When dire disease prepares her wrath | To pour in terror from above', | How gleams upon his gloomy path', | The glowing light of woman's love. !|
When all around is clear, and bright', | And pleasure lends her fairest charm; | And man, enraptur'd with delight', |
Feels, as he views, his bosom warm', | Why glows his breast with joy profuse', And all his deeds, his rap'ture prove? | It is, because the scene he views' |
Through the bright rays of woman's love! |
O woman! | thine is still the power, | Denied to all but only thee, | To chase away the clouds that lower, I To harass life's eventful sea. I Thou light of man! his only joy | Beneath a wide, and boundless sky, | Long shall thy praise his tongue, employ, Sylph of the blue, and beaming eye!|
When Music, heavenly maid, was young, | Ere 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. I By turns they felt the glowing mind | Disturb'd, delight'ed, rais'd, refin'd; ] Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, | Fill'd with fury, | rapt', | inspir'd1, | 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. I Next, An'ger 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 wo'ful measures, wan Despair, | Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; | A solemn', strange', and min gl'd air: |
"T was sad by fits; by starts, 't was wild. | But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, | What was thy delighted meas、ure ? | 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 the 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 wo; 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, seem'd bursting from his head. I
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought', were fix'd-| Sad proof of thy distress 'ful 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 mingl'd measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, | Round a holy calm diffusing, |
Love of peace, and lonely musing, |
In hollow murmurs, died away. |
But, O! how alter'd was its spright 'lier 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 fawn and dryad known. | The oak-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 ecstatic 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. I 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 flying 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 the frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay', | Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
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