Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour, but an empty bubble;
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 crown'd; but music won the cause.— The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor-sunk upon her breast!

Now strike the golden lyre again!"

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder!
Hark! hark!-the horrid sound

Has raised up his head,

As awaked from the dead;
And, amazed, he stares around!
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries-

See the furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,

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

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
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 seiz'd 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 soft 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 Passions.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Dryden.

Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds!-his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She cail'd 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,
Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,

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,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien;

While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd:

And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound.

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay— Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing—

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh, how alter'd was its splightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung;

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crown'd 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 leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

Childe Harold's Song.

ADIEU, adieu!-my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Collins,

Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-Good night!

A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies --
But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall –
My dog howls at the gate.

Come hither, hither, my little page,
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along.

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind;

་་

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind:

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend save these alone,
But thee-and One above.

"My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh,
Till I come back again."-
Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye-
If I thy guiltless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry!

Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
Or shiver at the gale?