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 seiz'd 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 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,

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.

"LOVE STILL HAS SOMETHING."

BY SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

[SIR CHARLES SEDI EY was born at Aylesford, in Kent, in 1639, and was educated at Oxford. He was one of the leading wits of the Court of Charles II., where he squandered his estate, his time, and his moral character. But in his latter years he redeemed his reputation; and opposed, in Parliament, the arbitrary measures of James II. His daughter was the mistress of that monarch, who made her Countess of Dorchester; and when Sedley was asked why he promoted the revolution, he replied that he did it out of gratitude; for since the king made his daughter a countess, it was fit that he should make the king's daughter a queen. He died in 1701.]

LOVE still has something of the sea,

From whence his mother rose;

No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalm'd in clearest days,
And in rough weather toss'd;
They wither under cold delays,

Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port,
Then straight into the main

Some angry wind, in cruel sport,

The vessel drives again.

At first disdain and pride they fear,
Which, if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and falsehood soon appear
In a more cruel shape.

A hundred thousand oaths your fears Perhaps would not remove;

And if I gazed a thousand years,

I could not deeper love.

THE CHOICE.

BY JOHN POMFRET.

[JOHN POMFRET was born at Luton, in Bedfordshire, in 1667, and educated at Cambridge. He took orders, and obtained the living of Malden, in Bedfordshire. But going to London, in 1703, to vindicate himself to the Bishop from a charge of having introduced immoral sentiments into his poem of "The Choice," this amiable and unfortunate man took the small-pox and died. This piece, from which we have selected an extract, derives most of its charms from the delightful images of a country life which it calls up in the mind; but its beauties in this way have been thrown into the shade by similar efforts of Thomson and Cowper, and hence it is, in a great degree, forgotten.]

IF Heaven the grateful liberty would give
That I might choose my method how to live;
And all those hours propitious fate should lend,

In blissful ease and satisfaction spend ;

Near some fair town I'd have a private seat,

Built uniform, not little, nor too great;

Better, if on a rising ground it stood;

On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood.

It should within no other things contain

But what are useful, necessary, plain;

Methinks 'tis nauseous; and I'd ne'er endure

The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.

A little garden grateful to the eye,