And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all her song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast, so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo; And ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien; While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed- Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love, now, raving, called on Hate With eyes upraised, as one inspired, And, from her wild sequestered seat, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul, Bubbling runnels joined the sound: Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole, Love of peace and lonely musing,) In hollow murmurs-died away. But, oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!— The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown exercise rejoiced to hear, And sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear. Last came joy's ecstatic trial:— He with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; To some unwearied minstrel dancing: As if he would the charming air repay, 59. ALEXANDER'S FEAST.-Dryden. 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son.— Aloft, in awful state, The godlike hero sat On his imperial throne. His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound; The lovely Thais, by his side, Sat like a blooming eastern bride, In flower of youth, and beauty's pride.- None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave,—deserves the fair Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The song began from Jove, When he to fair Olympia pressed, 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, 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! Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus's 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; 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 defiedChanged his hand and checked his pride. He chose a mournful muse. He sang Darius, great and good, Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen! With downcast looks the joyless victor sat, Revolving, in his altered soul, The various turns of fate below; The mighty master smiled to see 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, sighed and looked, At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, Now strike the golden lyre again; And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark!-the horrid sound As awaked from the dead; See the snakes that they rear, Each a torch in his hand! These 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, And glittering temples of their hostile gods! 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, 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 And added strength 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. |