The master saw the madness rise, Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, -With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of Chance below; The mighty master smiled to see Take the good the gods provide thee! -The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : At length with love and wine at once opprest Now strike the golden lyre again: 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 How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew! 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 ! --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 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 106 Book Second 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 raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down! J. Dryden The Golden Treasury Book Third CXVII, ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Smiles on past Misfortune's brow Soft Reflection's hand can trace, While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, See the wretch that long has tost And breathe and walk again : T. Gray CXVIII THE QUIET LIFE Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade. In winter, fire. |