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At length with love and wine at once opprest
The vanquish'd 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 their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band 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 ! --Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learn'd 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,

106

Book Second

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!

7. Dryden

The Golden Treasury

Book Third

CXVII
ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM

VICISSITUDE
Now the golden Morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She woos the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,

Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance

The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,

The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know ;
'Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past Misfortune's brow

Soft Reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw

A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,

See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads.

Approaching Comfort view :
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tost

On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost

And breathe and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale
The simplest note that swells the gale
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

T. Gray

CXVIII

THE QUIET LIFE
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade.

In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mix'd ; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please

With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

A. Pope

CXIX
THE BLIND BOY
O say what is that thing call’d Light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,

O tell your poor blind boy! You talk of wondrous things you see

You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make

Whene'er I sleep or play ;
And could I ever keep awake

With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe ;
But sure with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy :

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