And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !
Behold a ghastly band,
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
To the valiant crew !
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 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 !

J. DRYDEN

THE GOLDEN TREASURY

BOOK THIRD

117

ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM

VICISSITUDE

Now the golden Morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She wooes the tardy Spring :
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks in rustic dance,

Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance

The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy ;
And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

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
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

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 ;
Behind the steps that Misery treads

Approaching Comfort view :
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

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.

T. GRAY

118

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,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly 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
Together mix'd ; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown

;
Thus unlamented let me die ;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

A. POPE

119

THE BLIND BOY

O say what is that thing call'd Light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
What are the blessings of the sight,

O tell your poor blind boy !
You talk of wondrous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night ?
My day or night myself I make

Whene'er I sleep or play ;
And could I ever keep awake

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.

C. CIBBER

120

ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A

TUB OF GOLD FISHES
'Twas on a lofty vase's side
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared :
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes-
She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but ʼmidst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream :
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple, to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw
With many an ardent wish
She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize-
What female heart can gold despise ?
What Cat's averse to Fish ?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,