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, 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! DRYDEN. Statues, bend your heads in sor row, Ye that glance 'mid ruins old, That know not a past, nor expect a morrow On many a moonlight Grecian wold! By sculptured cave and speaking river, Thee, Dædalus, oft the Nymphs recall; The leaves with a sound of winter quiver, Murmur thy name, and withering fall. Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed eye, Though, Dædalus, thou no more commandest New stars to that ever-widening sky. Ever thy phantoms arise before us, Our loftier brothers, but one in blood; By bed and table they lord it o'er us, With looks of beauty and words of good. Calmly they show us mankind victorious O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base; Their presence has made our nature glorious, Unveiling our night's illumined face. Wail for Dædalus, Earth and Ocean! Wail for Dædalus, awful Voices, From earth's deep centre Mankind appall! Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices, For he knows that then the mightiest fall. JOHN STERLING. |