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And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,

Such is the power of mighty love!

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity! they shout around:

A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravished ears

The monarch hears,

Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young.

The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets; beat the drums!
Flushed with a purple gracc

He shows his honest face:

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain:
Bacchus blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure

Sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain,

Fought all his battles o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.
The master saw the madness rise;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,

Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius, great and good,
By too severe a fate,

Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast look the joyless victor sate;
Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of fate below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled, to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures;

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh, think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee.

The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, and sighed again

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

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Now strike the golden lyre again;

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark! hark! the horrid sound

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 learned 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,
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.

ALEXANDER POPE.
(b 1688 d 1744).

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

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.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

DR. SWIFT.

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.

Parson, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the Bishop's blessing.
A Wife that makes conserves; a Steed
That carries double when there's need:
October store, and best Virginia,
Tithe-Pig, and mortuary Guinea:
Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank'd,
For which thy Patron's weekly thank'd:
A large Concordance, bound long since:
Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince;
A Chronicle of ancient standing;

A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in.
The Polygot

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Lo here the Septuagint,

and Paul,

To sum the whole, the close of all.

He that has these, may pass his life,

Drink with the 'Squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays if he will;

Toast Church and Queen, explain the News,
Talk with Church-Wardens about Pews,
Pray heartily for some new Gift,

And shake his head at Doctor S-t.

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