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 checked 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 welt'ring 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 altered 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,
Honor 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 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,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again;

At length, with love and wine, at once oppressed
The vanquished 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!

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 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 billows 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.

FROM

ST. CECILIA'S DAY

JOHN DRYDEN

ROM harmony, from heav'nly harmony
This universal frame began.

When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high:
Arise, ye more than dead,
Then cold and hot and moist and dry
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heav'nly harmony
This universal frame began;

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And wond'ring on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound;

Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum.

Cries, hark: the foes come!
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violin proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach
What human voice can reach
That sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given;
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise