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The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound; So should desert in arms be crowned.

The lovely Thaïs by his side

Sat, like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair;
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 touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
Such is the power of mighty Love!
A dragon's fiery form belied the god :
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia pressed;
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curled,

And stamped an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world.
The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young:

The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flushed with a purple grace

He shows his honest face.

Now, give the hautboys breath; he comes! he comes!

Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain :
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure;

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed 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;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,

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;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies,

With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of fate below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures;
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause ;
So love was crowned, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again.

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again;

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark! hark! the horrid sound

Has raised up his head,

As awaked from the dead,
And, amazed, he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries;
See the Furies arise;

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,
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain;

Give the vengeance due
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 seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Thus long ago,

Ere heaving billows 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,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

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.

Earl of Roscommon.

{

Born 1635.
Died 1685.

WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Roscommon, and nephew of the celebrated Earl of Strafford. His chief poem is "Essay on Translated Verse," of which the following is an extract.

THE MODEST MUSE.

How nice the reputation of the maid!
Your early kind paternal care appears
By chaste instruction of her tender years.
The first impression in her infant breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not austerity breed servile fear;
No wanton sound offend her virgin ear.
Immodest words admit of no defence,
For want of decency is want of sense.
Secure from foolish pride's affected state,
And specious flattery's more pernicious bait;
Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts;
But your neglect must answer for her faults.

Bishop Ken.

Born 1637.

Died 1710.

THOMAS KEN, Bishop of Bath and Wells, was born in Hertfordshire in 1637. Though a man of unyielding conscientiousness, he was made a bishop by Charles II. He was one of the seven prelates sent to the Tower for opposing the usurpations of James II. He is chiefly known as the author of the "Morning, Evening, and Midnight Hymns."

EVENING HYMN.

ALL praise to Thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light:
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Under the shadow of thy wings.

Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,
The ill that I this day have done,
That with the world, myself, and Thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.

O let my soul on Thee repose,

And with sweet sleep mine eyelids close;
Sleep that shall me more vig'rous make
To serve my God when I awake.

If in the night I sleepless lie,

My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No powers of darkness me molest.

Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed;
Teach me to die, that so I may
With joy behold the judgment day.

Sir Charles Sedley.

{

Born 1639.

Died 1701.

His

ONE of the wits of the court of Charles II., with whom he was a great favourite. He wrote plays and poems greatly admired in his time. songs are, however, his happiest compositions.

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.

AH! Chloris, that I now could sit
As unconcerned as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure, nor no pain.
When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.

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