When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, THE WREATH. SINCE I in storms most used to be, I will not for thy temples bring, But a twined wreath of grief and praise, 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne : His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crown'd) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate, like a blooming Eastern bride, None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The song began from Jove, When he to fair Olympia press'd, And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her slender waist he curl'd, [world. And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the A present deity, they shout around; With ravish'd ears And seems to shake the spheres. 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. Drinking joys did first ordain; Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew [the slain. He sung Darius great and good, 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 Never ending, still beginning, 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, 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. And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Has raised up his head! As awaked from the dead, Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes 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, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire. 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 raised a mortal to the skies; |