And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, 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. The monarch hears, Assumes the god, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, The jolly god in triumph comes; He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! Drinking joys did first ordain: 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. His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius, great and good, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood; The various turns of fate below; The mighty master smiled, to see Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Never ending, still beginning, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; 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. 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. See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, Inglorious on the plain; Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, And the King seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy: 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. Inventress of the vocal frame, The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown: ALEXANDER POPE. ODE ON SOLITUDE. Happy the man, whose wish and care In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 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, Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, 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 A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in. three parts, my text, 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; Toast Church and Queen, explain the News, And shake his head at Doctor S-t. |