132 Hark, hark! the horrid sound As awaked from the dead Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, 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 And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due 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, 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 CLII ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground, 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 While hope prolongs our happier hour, Still, where rosy pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow See the wretch that long has tost T. Gray CLIII ODE TO SIMPLICITY O Thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who with hermit heart, Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall, In Attic robe array'd, O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call! By all the honey'd store By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear ; In evening musings slow Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear: By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat ; On whose enamell'd side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allured thy future feet : O sister meek of Truth, Thy sober aid and native charms infuse ! Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. While Rome could none esteem But Virtue's patriot theme, You loved her hills, and led her laureat band; But stay'd to sing alone To one distinguish'd throne; And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in hall or bower, The Passions own thy power; Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean : For thou hast left her shrine; Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius, bless To some divine excess, Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply May court, may charm our eye; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul' Of these let others ask To aid some mighty task; I only seek to find thy temperate vale ; And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale. CLIV SOLITUDE W. Collins 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, Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Sound sleep by night; study and ease And innocence, which most does please Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die ; Steal from the world, and not a stone THE BLIND BOY O say what is that thing call'd Light, |