Part 7

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son-- Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crown'd). The lovely Thais by his side Sate 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 touch'd 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 spires he rode When he to fair Olympia prest, And while he sought her snowy breast; Then round her slender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. --The listening crowd admire the lofty sound! A present deity! they shout around: A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound! With ravish'd 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! Flush'd 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 check'd his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering 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 alter'd soul The various turns of Chance 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 Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee! --The many rend the skies with loud applause; So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again: 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, 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!

J. DRYDEN.

THIRD BOOK.

SUMMARY.

It is more difficult to characterise the English Poetry of the eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age not only of spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only such divergences of thought as distinguished the "Rape of the Lock" from the "Parish Register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie between Pope and Collins, Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace three leading moods or tendencies:--the aspects of courtly or educated life represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and Gray:--lastly, the study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description, begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the north, and established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most conspicuously by Burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. There is again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:--nor can that period be justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such as Pope's Satires, Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey, the songs of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the eighteenth century the turning-time in European civilisation is reflected faithfully in its verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of Newton as markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here be sufficient.

117. 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.

118. SOLITUDE.

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.

119. 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: Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

C. CIBBER.

120. ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes-- She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple, to the view Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw; A whisker first, and then a claw With many an ardent wish She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize-- What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between-- Malignant Fate sat by and smiled-- The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mew'd to every watery God Some speedy aid to send:-- No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard-- A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glisters, gold!

T. GRAY.

121. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.

Timely blossom, Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight, Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale, Singing many a tuneless song. Lavish of a heedless tongue; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush, Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat; Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys, Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest:-- This thy present happy lot This, in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee.

A. PHILIPS.

122. RULE BRITANNIA.

When Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Brittania! Brittania rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair:-- Rule Britannia! Brittania rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves!

J. THOMSON.

123. THE BARD.

_Pindaric Ode._

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" --Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array:-- Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: "Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue That hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- No more I weep; They do not sleep; On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

"Weave the warp and weave the woof The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty Victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? --Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes: Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove; the work is done;) Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:-- All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.

"The verse adorn again, Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; To triumph and to die are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

T. GRAY.

124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their Country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit, there!

W. COLLINS.

125. LAMENT FOR CULLODEN.

The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, Alas! And aye the saut tear blink's her ee: Drumossie moor--Drumossie day-- A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see: And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's ee! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou hast made sair That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

R. BURNS.

126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

J. ELLIOTT.

127. THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! For ever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!

He promised me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,-- The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;-- Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.

His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look-- Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid; Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.