But heav'n's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accurs'd, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay curs'd be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
O then at last relent: Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the sp'rits beneath, whom I seduc'd
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
Th' Omnipotent. Ah me, they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell,
With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery: Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feign'd stubmission swore? ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow

Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so deep :
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse,
And heavier fall: So should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my punisher: therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging peace:
All hope excluded thus, behold instead
Of us outcast, exil'd, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,
Farewell remorse: All good to me is lost;
Evil be thou my good: By thee at least
Divided empire with heav'n's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man ere long, and this new world shall know.

MILTON.

'TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son.

Aloft in awful state,

The godlike hero sat

On his imperial throne.

His valiant peers were plac'd around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound;
So should desert in arms be crown'd.

The lovely Thais by his side,
Sat like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave, deserve the fair.
Timotheus plac'd on high,

Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:

The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above;
Such is the power of mighty love!
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode.

When he the fair Olympia press'd,

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And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.

The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity; the vaulted roofs rebound.

A present deity, they shout around;

With ravish'd ears the monarch hears,

Assumes the god, affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung;

Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young.

The jolly god in triumph comes!

Sound the trumpet; beat the drums ;

Flush'd with a purple grace,

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;

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:

Rich the treasure;

Sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure, after pain.

Sooth'd 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.

The master saw the madness rise;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,
Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius, great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,
Fall'n, from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood:
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast look the joyless victor sat;
Revolving, in his alter'd soul,

The various turns of fate below;
And now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smil'd to see,
That love was in the next degree :
Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd 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 causer
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gaz'd on the fair,

Who caus'd 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 rais'd up his head,

As awak'd 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 unbury'd, 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-fir'd 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,

Enlarg'd 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 rais'd a mortal to the skies;

She drew an angel down.

1

DRYDEN.

I.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

II.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

III.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.

IV.

Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n, Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.

V.