The mighty master smiled to see Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So love was crowned, but music won the cause. Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder, 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, The princes applaud, with a furious joy; And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 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. From RELIGIO LAICI. On the Critical History of the Old Testament, Witness this weighty book, in which appears From gold divine; which he who well can sort A treasure which, if country curates buy, Save pains in various readings and translations; And without Hebrew make most learn'd quotations. The strait gate would be made straiter yet From THE HIND AND PANTHER. Line 33. For Truth has such a face and such a mien, Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who, secure within, can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day. From the EPISTLE TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER. Shadows are but privations of the light, CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. SONG. [Written at Sea in the first Dutch War, 1665, the Night before an Engagement.] To all you ladies now on land But first would have you understand The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you. For though the Muses should prove kind, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Then if we write not by each post, Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The king, with wonder and surprise, Should foggy Opdam chance to know The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; . . 'Tis then no matter how things go, To pass our tedious hours away, But now our fears tempestuous grow, Perhaps permit some happier man When any mournful tune you hear, As if it sighed with each man's care Think how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were played. And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears; |