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! With Styx nine times round her, 71 75 80 85 до Yet mufic and love were victorious. VI. But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes; 95 Befide the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, Unheard, unknown, 100 105 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. And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found. ODE ON SOLITUDE. 115 120 125 130 134 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. 3 Blefs'd, Blefs'd, who can unconcern'dly find In health of body, peace of mind, Sound fleep by night; ftudy and ease Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown, Steal from the world, and not a stone ODE. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. I. VITAL fpark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame! II. Hark! they whisper; angels fay, 10 15 20 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: 15 Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Death! where is thy sting? 18 OF DR. JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S, VERSIFIED. YES, thank my ftars! as early as I knew That all befide one pities, not abhors, As who knows Sappho fmiles at other whores. hate! 10 It brought (no doubt) th' Excise and Army in: SATIRE II. SIR, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate 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; Thus as the pipes of fome carv'd organ move, One fings the fair; but fongs no longer move; Thefe write to lords, fome mean reward to get, Wretched, indeed! but far more wretched yet 20 26 Is he who makes his meal on others' wit: 30 '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; I pafs o'er all thofe confeffors and martyrs And faves his life) gives idiot actors means, 35 One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's charms Bring not now their old fears nor their old harms. Pistolets are the best artillery: And they who write to lords rewards to get, |