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; 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: With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast look the joyless victor sate, 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 Never ending, still beginning, Take the good the gods provide thee.— rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The many 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, At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, Now strike the golden lyre again; And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound As awak'd from the dead, And amaz'd, he stares around. See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in the air, 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, To the valiant crew: Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods! The Princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thaïs led the way, To light bim 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 the 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, 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. THE HERMIT. BY BEATTIE. Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, "Ah, why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away— Full quickly they pass,-but they never return. "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The Moon half-extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. "'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn! O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!" |