- With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of Chance below; The mighty master smiled to see 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 opprest 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 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, 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 ! - 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! J. Dryden BOOK THIRD CXVII ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE WOW the golden Morn aloft Now Waves her dew-bespangled wing, She woos the tardy Spring: New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; The herd stood drooping by : Smiles on past Misfortune's brow Soft Reflection's hand can trace, And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, And blended form, with artful strife, See the wretch that long has tost And breathe and walk again : The meanest floweret of the vale, To him are opening Paradise. T. Gray |