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And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !
-The princes applaud with a furious joy :
-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 soít 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 !
THE GOLDEN TREASURY
ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
She wooes the tardy Spring :
New-born flocks in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
The birds his presence greet:
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly ; Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by :
Their raptures now that wildly flow
Smiles on past Misfortune's brow
Soft Reflection's hand can trace, And n'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace; While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lour And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,
See a kindred Grief pursue ;
Approaching Comfort view :
See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost
And breathe and walk again : The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise.
THE QUIET LIFE 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,
In winter, fire.
Quiet by day,
THE BLIND BOY
O say what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
O tell your poor blind boy !
You say the sun shines bright;
Or make it day or night ?
Whene'er I sleep or play ;
With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy : Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.
ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A
TUB OF GOLD FISHES
Her conscious tail her joy declared :
Still had she gazed, but ʼmidst the tide
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent