Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!

And gave him back the fair.

Thus fong could prevail

O'er death and o'er hell,

A conqueft how hard and how glorious!
Tho' Fate had faft bound her,

With Styx nine times round her,

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до

Yet mufic and love were victorious.

VI.

But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes;
Again the falls, again fhe dies, the dies!
How wilt thou now the Fatal Sifters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,

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Befide the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders,

Rolling in meanders,
All alone,

Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever loft!
Now with Furies furrounded,
Defpairing, confounded,

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105

He

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's fnows:

See, wild as the winds o'er the defert he flies;

Hark! Hæmus refounds with the Bacchanals' cries

Ah fee, he dies!

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he fung,

Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue;

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains, rung.

VII.

Mufic the fiercest grief can charm,

And Fate's feverest rage difarm:

Mufic can foften pain to ease,

Our Joys below it can improve,

And make defpair and madness please:

And antedate the blifs above.
This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the fwelling notes our fouls afpire,
While folemn airs improve the facred fire,
And angels lean from heav'n to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n:
His numbers rais'd a fhade from hell,
Her's lift the foul to heav'n.

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

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Written when the Author was about twelve Years old.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whofe herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,

Whofe trees in fummer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

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Blefs'd,

Blefs'd, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, flide foft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound fleep by night; ftudy and ease
Together mix'd; fweet recreation;
And innocence, which moft does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

ODE.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

I.

VITAL fpark of heav'nly flame!

Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying;
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature! cease thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.

II.

Hark! they whisper; angels fay,

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S

Sifter Spirit, come away.

What is this abforbs me quite !

Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,

ΤΟ

Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?

Tell me, my Soul! can this be Death?

III.

The world recedes; it difappears!

Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears

With founds feraphic ring:

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Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

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OF

DR. JOHN DONNE,

DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S, VERSIFIED.

YES, thank my ftars! as early as I knew
This Town, I had the fenfe to hate it too;
Yet here, as ev'n in hell, there must be still
One giant vice fo excellently ill,

That all befide one pities, not abhors,

As who knows Sappho fmiles at other whores.
I grant that poetry's a crying fin;

hate!

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It brought (no doubt) th' Excise and Army in:
Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how,
But that the cure is ftarving all allow.
Yet like the Papift's is the poet's itate,
Poor and difarm'd, and hardly worth your
Here a lean bard, whofe wit could never give
Himself a dinner, makes an actor live:
The thief condemn'd, in law already dead,
So prompts and faves a rogue who cannot read.

SATIRE II.

SIR, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this Town, yet there's one state

In all ill things fo excellently beft,

That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest, Tho' poetry, indeed, be such a fin

As I think that brings dearth and Spaniards in;
Tho', like the peftilence and old-fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove
Never till it be starv'd out; yet their state
Is poor, difarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate:
One (like a wretch, which at bar judg'd as dead,
Yet prompts him which ftands next, and cannot read,

Thus as the pipes of fome carv'd organ move,
The gilded puppets dance and mount above :
Heav'n by th' breath th' infpiring bellows blow;
Th' infpiring bellows lie and pant below.

One fings the fair; but fongs no longer move;
No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love:
In love's, in Nature's, fpite the fiege they hold,
And fcorn the flesh, the devil, and all but gold..

Thefe write to lords, fome mean reward to get,
As needy beggars fing at doors for meat:
Thofe write because all write, and fo have still
Excufe for writing, and for writing ill.

Wretched, indeed! but far more wretched yet

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Is he who makes his meal on others' wit:

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'Tis chang'd, no doubt, from what it was before; His rank digeftion makes it wit no more:

Senfe pafs'd thro' him no longer is the fame;
For food digefted takes another name.

I pafs o'er all thofe confeffors and martyrs
Who live like S-tt-n, or who die like Chartres,

And faves his life) gives idiot actors means,
(Starving himself) to live by's labour'd fcenes.
As in fome organs puppets dance above,
And bellows pant below which them do move,

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One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's charms

Bring not now their old fears nor their old harms.
Rams and flings now are filly battery;

Pistolets are the best artillery:

And they who write to lords rewards to get,
Are they not like fingers at doors for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have ftill
Th' excufe for writing, and for writing ill.
But he is worst who (beggarly) doth chaw
Others' wits' fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digefted, doth thofe things out-fpue
As his own things: and they're his own, 'tis true;
For if one eat my meat, tho' it be known
The meat was mine, th' excrement is his own.