Twas but a kindred sound to move, Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, ob think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. 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, At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, CHORUS. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, VI. 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 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! How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods! The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. CHORUS. And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. VII. Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, And added length to solemn sounds, Or both divide the crown: GRAND CHORUS. At last divine Cecilia came, The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, Or both divide the crown: VENI CREATOR. Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit every pious mind; Come, pour thy joys on humankind; From sin and sorrow set us free, Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; Plenteons of grace, descend from high, Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; Make us eternal truths receive; Immortal honor, endless fame, Who for lost man's redemption died! SHAFTESBURY DELINEATED AS ACHITO PHEL. FROM "ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL," Of these the false Achitophel was first- And o'er informed its tenement of clay: A daring pilot in extremity, Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high, He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, BUCKINGHAM DELINEATED AS ZIMRI. FROM "ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL." Some of their chiefs were princes of the land: That every man with him was god or devil. : ENJOY THE PRESENT. The tide of business, like the running stream, Now with a noiseless, gentle course It keeps within the middle bed; And bears down all before it with impetuous force; Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who, secure within, can say, The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine! Fortune, that with malicious joy Does mau, her slave, oppress, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, I can enjoy her while she's kind; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes the wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away! The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned: Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow black, And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Contemuing all the blustering roar; Katharine Phillips. Daughter of Mr. John Fowler, a London merchant, Katharine Phillips (1631-1664) showed genuine poetical taste and ability. She was a friend of Jeremy Taylor, who addressed to her a "Discourse on Friendship." She wrote under the name of Orinda, was praised by Roscommon and Cowley, and had the friendship of many of the eminent authors of her day. She translated two of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters, which was published after her death. Her poems were very popular in her lifetime, but their fame has been evanscent. Earl of Roscommon. Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1634–1685), was the nephew of the great Earl of Strafford, after whose fall on the scaffold he was sent to Caen to pursue his studies. While there he succeeded to the title of Roscommon. Aubrey tells a story that the youth had a presentiment of his father's death, and exclaimed, “My father is dead!" one day while he was engaged with some boys at play, at least a fortnight before the intelligence arrived from Ireland. Roscommon's chief work is called "An Essay on Translated Verse;" he also translated Horace's "Art of Poetry," and wrote minor poems. Just before he died he uttered two lines of his own paraphrase of Thomas de Celano's "Dies Iræ:" "My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end!" His mortal remains were interred with great pomp in Westminster Abbey. To his honor let it be said that he well deserved this tribute from Pope: "Unhappy Dryden! In all Charles's days, Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays." Living in the foul times of the second Charles, he refused to soil his pages with the ribaldry and grossness which the popular taste seemed then to demand. He wrote this couplet: "Immodest words admit of no defence, Benjamin Franklin, in no hypercritical spirit, suggested not a bad amendment of the couplet, thus: "Immodest words admit but this defence: Thus make the proper use of each extreme, Thomas Ken. Ken (1637-1711) was educated at Oxford, became chaplain to Charles II., and was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower for resisting the tyranny of James II. A meeker and a braver man than Ken never lived. His hymns are still deservedly esteemed. He published an epic poem entitled "Edmund," and was the author of several approved devotional works. But what they feel transport them when they write. But though we must obey when Heaven commands, The faster sleep the senses binds, The more unfettered are our minds. Ob, may my soul, from matter free, Thy loveliness unclouded see! Oh, may my Guardian,' while I sleep, May he celestial joys rehearse, And thought to thought with me converse; Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Thomas Otway. The son of a clergyman, Otway (1651-1685) was born ia Sussex. Leaving Oxford without a degree, he appeared on the stage in 1672 as an actor, but failed. He tan got a commission in the army in Flanders, but was cashiered. He wrote for the stage, and several of his picces were quite successful; but he was continually in the direst poverty, and he is alleged by some to have ded of voraciously eating a piece of bread after a long compulsory fast. His fame rests chiefly on his "Venire Preserved," in which there are passages of great dramatic power. He wrote some miscellaneous poems, but their merit is very humble. FROM "VENICE PRESERVED." ACT IV., SCENE II. Pierre. What whining monk art thon? what holy cheat, That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears, And cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thee not! Jaff. Not know me, Pierre! Pierre. No, know thee not! What art thou? Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once loved, valued friend! Tho' now deservedly scorned and used most hardly. Pierre. Thou Jaffier! thou my once loved, valued friend! Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant; Pierre. Hast thou not wronged me? Dar'st thou call thyself Jaffier, That once loved, valued friend of mine, And swear thou hast not wronged me? Whence these chains? Whence the vile death which I may meet this moment? Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false one? Jaff. All's true; yet grant one thing, and I've done asking. Pierre. What's that? Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions The council have proposed: thou and thy friends May yet live long, and to be better treated. Pierre. Life! ask my life! confess! record myself No, this vile world and I have long been jangling, Pierre. Swear by some other power, For thou hast broke that sacred oath already. Pierre. Not leave me! Jaff. No; thou shalt not force me from thee. Use me reproachfully and like a slave; Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs On my poor head: I'll bear it all with patience; Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty; Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they spurn me; By heavens, thou liest! The man so called my Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent, friend That is, my Guardian Angel. And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. Pierre. Art thou not Jaff. What? |