But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teeméd star Hath fixed her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending : And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. LXIII J. Milton SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 FROM from beagan: `ROM Harmony, from heavenly Harmony When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry And music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 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 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 For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach, The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways 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 LXIV ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT AVENGE, O Lord! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Forget not: In thy book record their groans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they The triple tyrant, that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. J. Milton LXV HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND THE HE forward youth that would appear, His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And like the three-fork'd lightning first, For 't is all one to courage high The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservéd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot) Could by industrious valour climb Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient Rights in vain But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak. Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war And Hampton shows what part |