Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!' The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion But oh what art can teach, The sacred organ's praise? Notes that wing their heavenly ways 45 To mend the choirs above. III. Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : Grand Chorus. As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour J. Dryden LXXXVII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O Lord thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 10 IV. J. Milton. LXXXVIII. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND. THE forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unuséd armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war And like the three-fork'd lightning, first Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide : For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; 5 10 15 And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. Then burning through the air he went And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where (As if his highest plot Could by industrious valour climb Though Justice against Fate complain, But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak. Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art, Where, twining subtle fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the Royal actor borne While round the arméd bands He nothing common did or mean But with his keener eye And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, 75 |