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I journeyed many roads ; I knocked at gates ;
I spoke to each wayfarer
I met, and said, “A heritage awaits
Me. Art not thou the bearer
Of news ? some message sent to me whereby
I learn which way my new possessions lie ?"

Some asked me in ; naught lay beyond their door;
Some smiled, and would not tarry,
But said that men were just behind who bore
More gold than I could carry ;
Aud so the morn, the noon, the day, were spent,
While empty-handed up and down I went.

SYMPATHY.
FROM “10N," ACT I. SC. 2.

"T is a little thing
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happier hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense, yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall
Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears, relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again ;
And shed on the departing soul a sense,

At last one cried, whose face I could not see,
As through the mists he hasted :
“Poor child, what evil ones have hindered thee
Till this whole day is wasted ?

More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
of the great family is near and feels.

SIR THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.

CHORUS.
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST ; OR, THE POWER | The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician OF MUSIC.

sung

Of Bacchus - ever fair and ever young :
AN ODE.

The jolly god in triumph comes ; 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won

Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums :
By Philip's warlike son :

Flushed with a purple grace
Aloft in awful state

He shows his honest face :
The godlike hero sate

Now give the hautboys breath. He comes ! he
On his imperial throne :

comes ! His valiant peers were placed around,

Bacchus, ever fair and young, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound

Drinking joys did first ordain ; (So should desert in arms be crowned);

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, The lovely Thais, by his side,

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; Sate like a blooming Eastern bride

Rich the treasure,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.

Sweet the pleasure,
Happy, happy, happy pair !

Sweet is pleasure after pain..
None but the brave,
None but the brave,

CHORUS.
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
CHORUS.

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ;
Happy, happy, happy pair !

Rich the treasure,
None but the brave,

Sweet the pleasure,
None but the brave,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ;
Timotheus, placed on high

Fought all his battles o'er again ;
Amid the tuneful choir,

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he
With flying fingers touched the lyre ;

slew the slain.
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

The master saw the madness rise ;
And heavenly joys inspire.

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ;
The song began from Jove,

And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Who left his blissful seats above

Changed his hand and checked his pride. (Such is the power of mighty love).

He chose a mournful muse,
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ;

Soft pity to infuse :
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,

He sung Darius, great and good,
When he to fair Olyinpia pressed,

By too severe a fate,
And while he sought her snowy breast; Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Then round her slender waist he curled,

Fallen from his high estate, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign And weltering in his blood ; of the world.

Deserted, at his utmost need,
The listening crowd adınire the lofty sound, By those his former bounty fed ;
A present deity! they shout around;

On the bare earth exposed he lies,
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. With not a friend to close his eyes.
With ravished ears

| With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, The monarch hears,

Revolving in his altered soul
Assumes the god,

The various turns of chance below ;
Affects to nod,

And, now and then, a sigh he stole ;
And seems to shake the spheres.

And tears began to flow.

CHORUS.

Give the vengeance due
Revolving in his altered soul

To the valiant crew.
The various turns of chance below;

Behold how they toss their torches on high, And, now and then, a sigh he stole ;

How they point to the Persian abodes, And tears began to flow.

And glittering temples of their hostile gods !

The princes applaud with a furious joy ; The mighty master smiled, to see

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to de

stroy: That love was in the next degree ;

Thais led the way, 'T was but a kindred sound to move,

To light hiin to his prey, For pity melts the mind to love.

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.

CHORUS. War, he sung, is toil and trouble ;

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to deHonor, but an empty bubble ;

stroy: Never ending, still beginning,

Thais led the way,
Fighting still, and still destroying :
If the world be worth thy winning,

To light him to his prey,
Think, O, think it worth enjoying!

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Thus, long ago, Take the good the gods provide thee.

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, The many rend the skies with loud applause ;

While organs yet were mute ; So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.

Timotheus, to his breathing flute, The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

And sounding lyre,
Gazed on the fair

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
Who caused his care,

At last divine Cecilia came, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,

Inventress of the vocal frame ; Sighed and looked, and sighed again :

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown CHORUS.

before. The prince, unable to conccal his pain,

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Gazed on the fair

Or both divide the crown ;
Who caused his care,

He raised a mortal to the skies,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,

She drew an angel down.
Sighed and looked, and sighed again :
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,

GRAND CHORUS.
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame; Now strike the golden lyre again :

The sweet enthusiast, froin her sacred store, A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And added length to solemn sounds, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown Hark, hark, the horrid sound

before.
Has raised up his head ;

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
As awaked from the dead,

Or both divide the crown ;
And amazed, he stares around.

He raised a mortal to the skies,
Revenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries,

She drew an angel down.
See the furies arise !

JOHN DRYDEN,
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,

INVOCATION.
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !
Behold a ghastly band,

FROM "THE DAVIDEIS."
Each a torch in his hand !

AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And tell thy silent master's humble tale
And unburied remain,

In sounds that may prevail ;
Inglorious on the plain :

1 Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire :

'Though so exalted she,

Next Anger rushed ; his eyes, on fire, And I so lowly be,

In lightnings owned his secret stings: Tell her, such different notes make all thy har. In one rude clash he struck the lyre, mony.

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair, Hark! how the strings awake :

Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled, And, though the moving hand approach not near,

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; Themselves with awful fear

'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try ;

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, Now all thy charms apply ;

What was thy delightful measure ? Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Still it whispered promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Still would her touch the strain prolong; Is useless here, since thou art only found

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, To cure, but not to wound,

She called on Echo still, through all the song; And she to wound, but not to cure.

And where her sweetest theme she chose, Too weak, too, wilt thou prove

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; My passion to remove ;

And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her Physic to other ills, thou 'rt nourishment to love. golden hair.

And longer had she sung -- but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose ;
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre !
For thou canst never tell my humble tale

| He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder

down; In sounds that will prevail,

And, with a withering look, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ;

The war-denouncing trumpet took, All thy vain mirth lay by,

And blew a blast so loud and dread, Bid thy strings silent lie,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat; | And though, sometimes, each dreary pause be

tween,

Dejected Pity, at his side,
THE PASSIONS.

Her soul-subduing voice applied, i
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,

from his head. While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed, Thronged around her magic cell, -

Sad proof of thy distressful state ;

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, — Possessed beyond the muse's painting ;

And now it courted Love, - now, raving, By turns they felt the glowing mind

called on Hate. Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ;

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,

Pale Melancholy sate retired ; Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

And from her wild sequestered seat, From the supporting myrtles round

In notes by distance made more sweet, They snatched her instruments of sound;

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive And, as they oft had heard apart

soul : Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

And, dashing soft from rocks around, Each (for madness ruled the hour)

Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Would prove his own expressive power.

Through glades and glooms the mingled meas

ure stole ; First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Amid the chords bewildered laid,

Round an holy calm diffusing, And back recoiled, he knew not why,

Love of peace, and lonely musing, E'en at the sound himself had made.

In hollow murmurs died away.

die.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

out

float,

But 0, how altered was its sprightlier tone

THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG. When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

FROM "MUSIC'S DUEL. Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket

Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the streams

Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, rung, The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known !

Under protection of an oak, there sat

A sweet lute's-master, in whose gentle airs The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed

He lost the day's heat and his own hot cares. queen,

Close in the covert of the leaves there stood Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen

A nightingale, come from the neighboring wood Feeping from forth their alleys green :

(The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ;

Their muse, their siren, harmless siren she) : And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen

There stood she listening, and did entertain spear.

The music's soft report, and mould the same

In her own murmurs ; that whatever mood Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :

His curious fingers lent, her voice made good. He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;

This lesson too But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol,

m . She gives them back ; her supple breast thrills Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best; They would have thought, who heard the strain,

Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids

Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

The pliant series of her slippery song ; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Then starts she suddenly into a throng Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round :

Of short thick sobs, whose thundering volleys Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; And he, amidst his frolic play,

And roll themselves over her lubric throat As if he would the charming air repay,

In panting murmurs, stilled out of her breast; Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nest

Of her delicious soul, that there does lie O Music ! sphere-descended maid,

Bathing in streams of liquid melody; Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid !

Music's best seed-plot ; when in ripened airs Why, goddess, why, to us denied,

A golden-headed harvest fairly rears Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?

His honey-dropping tops ploughed by her breath As, in that loved Athenian bower,

Which there reciprocally laboreth. You learned an all-commanding power,

In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,

Sounded to the name of great Apollo's lyre ; Can well recall what then it heard.

Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes

Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swill their Where is thy native simple heart,

throats Devote to virtue, fancy, art?

In cream of morning Helicon, and then Arise, as in that elder time,

Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime !

To woo them from their beds, still murmuring Thy wonders, in that godlike age,

That men can sleep while they their matins sing Fill thy recording sister's page ;

(Most divine service), whose so early lay 'T is said -- and I believe the tale

Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. Thy humblest reed could more prevail,

There might you hear her kindle her soft voice Had more of strength, diviner rage,

In the close murmur of a sparkling noise ; Than all which charms this laggard age, - And lay the groundwork of her hopeful song. E'en all at once together found,

Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Cecilia's mingled world of sound.

Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out) O, bid our vain endeavors cease ;

Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, Revive the just designs of Greece !

And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast, Return in all thy simple state, -

Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest, Confirm the tales her sons relate !

Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, WILLIAM COLLINS. Winged with their own wild echoes, prattling fly.

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