« السابقةمتابعة »
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1708,
DESCEND, ye Nine! descend and sing;
While in more lengthen'd notes and slow
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies:
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away
In a dying, dying fall.
By music minds an equal temper know,
Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
List'ning envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
But when through all th' infernal bounds,
To the pale nations of the dead,
Love, strong as death, the
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'd,
O'er all the dreary coasts!
Shrieks of woe,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts!
But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And, see! the tortur'd ghosts respire;
See shady forms advance!
Thy stone, O Sisyphus! stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance;
The furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.
By the streams that ever flow,
By the heroes' armed shades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life;
Oh, take the husband, or return the wife !
He sung, and hell consented
To hear the poet's pray'r:
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
O'er death and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes;
Beside the fail of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanal's cries
Ah see, he dies!
Yet ev❜n in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's severest rage disarm:
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her maker's praise confin'd the sound.
ODE ON SOLITUDE.
WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS ABOUT TWELVE
HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breath his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, s
Whose flocks supply bin with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter file.
Bless'd, who can unconcern'dly find
Quiet by day:
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
And innocence, which most does please,
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
The world recedes: it disappears!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!