And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world. The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity! they shout around: A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. The monarch hears, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung; The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums: 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. Sooth'd 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: Chang'd his hand and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful muse He sung Darius great and good, With downcast look the joyless victor sat, The various turns of fate below; And now and then a sigh he stole ; The mighty master smil'd, to see That love was in the next degree; Take the good the gods provide thee. Gaz'd on the fair, Who caus'd his care, 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 oppress'd, The vanquish'd 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. Has rais'd up his head; As awak'd from the dead, See the furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Each a torch in his hand! These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, Behold how they toss their torches on high, 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: And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown; 38.-LUCY GRAY. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. [See p. 134.] OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray, No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew, You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray "To-night will be a stormy night- And take the lantern, child, to light "That, father, will I gladly do! The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the father raised his hook Not blither is the mountain roe; The storm came on before its time; The wretched parents all that night At daybreak on a hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood And turning homeward, now they cried, When in the snow the mother spied Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they cross'd, 2 They follow'd from the snowy bank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. 39.-STRIFE AND PEACE. JEAN INGELOW. [See page 156.] THE yellow poplar leaves came down No waftings were in the sunny air And he stepped on blithe and debonair That warm October day. "The boy," saith he, "hath got his own, But sore has been the fight, For ere his life began the strife That ceased but yesternight; For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, "His cause was argued in the court And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way. "Against each one did each contend, I would not bend, for I knew the end- And nought repent, though my first friend "Manor and moor and farm and wold Their greed begrudged him sore, |