The praise of Bacchus, then the sweet musician sung, The jolly god in triumph comes! He shows his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath!-he comes! he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure; Rich the treasure; Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain! Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again: And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good! Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen! Fallen from his high estate, The various turns of fate below; The mighty master smiled, to see Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Fighting still, and still destroying. 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, At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, Now strike the golden lyre again! A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder! Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead; See the furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 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; To light him to his prey! And, like another Helen, fired-another Troy. Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, Could swell the soul to rage-or kindle soft desire. With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; The Passions. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, Dryden. Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, She call'd on Echo still through all her song. And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; The war-denouncing trumpet took, 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; 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, Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delayRound a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing In hollow murmurs died away. But, oh, how alter'd was its splightlier tone! 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, 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. First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; To some unwearied minstrel dancing; As if he would the charming air repay, Childe Harold's Song. ADIEU, adieu!--my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, Collins. |