V.

The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
"T was but a kindred sound to move
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
Honor but an empty bubble,

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying;
Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again;

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

VI.

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!

Those 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 seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

VII.

Thus long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learned 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.

Wen B. Pork

IS not the gray hawk's flight
O'er mountain and mere;
'Tis not the fleet hound's course
Tracking the deer;

"T is not the light hoof-print

Of black steed or gray,
Though sweltering it gallop
A long summer's day;
Which mete forth the lordships
I challenge as mine;
Ha! ha! 't is the good brand
I clutch in my strong hand,
That can their broad marches

And numbers define.
LAND-GIVER! I kiss thee.

Dull builders of houses,

Base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships.
I owned at my birth;

But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,

Shouting, “There am I lord!”
Wold and waste, town and tower,
Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway
In the fierce battle-fray,

When the star that rules Fate is
This falchion's red gleam.
MIGHT-GIVER! I kiss thee.

I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,
I've drunk the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
I've hunted in greenwood,
And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle

And cold jargoning;

The music I love is

The shout of the brave,

The yell of the dying,

The scream of the flying,

When this arm wields death's sickle,

And garners the grave. JOY-GIVER! I kiss thee.

Far isles of the ocean

Thy lightning have known, And wide o'er the mainland

Thy horrors have shone.