ARISE, oh thou Sun! with fresh glory arise;
And thou, oh bright Morning! empurple the East,
For ne'er did thy splendor so gladden my eyes;
No morning e'er dawn'd with such hope in my breast.
This day shall be yearly remember'd with pride;
The feast shall be held, and the song shall go round
This day I shall call my lov'd Delia my bride:
With Delia each wish of my heart shall be crown'd.
And thou, lovely virgin! whose semblance divine
Still beams on my view, like an angel of light,
To thee, in fond visions, my soul I resign;
Ah, wake not my soul from the dream of delight.
Can Grandeur possess, or can Conquest bestow
A joy so sublime, so ennobling as this?
Though not the vain pomp of dominion I know,
Yet Monarchs, with envy, might smile on my bliss.
It is not thy skin, which, in fairness, outvies
The dew-spangled lily, the pride of the spring,
Nor is it the rose on thy cheek which I prize;
Thy mien so majestic, whose graces I sing:
These fan the soft flame of a fleeting desire;
But purer the passion, by Reason refin'd,
Let some thy fresh blossom of beauty admire,
I bow to the virtues which glow in thy mind.
Oh Day, so propitious, roll swiftly away!
And welcome mild Ev'ning to lead in the Night.
Oh Night, so long wish'd for, I chide thy delay!
Speed, speed thy kind shades to extinguish the light;
To veil her sweet blushes, to calm ev'ry fear,
Round the couch of my Love let thy curtains be spread;
Her eyes a soft transport may gem with a tear;
That tear of delight shall to Hymen be shed!
Love, from those bright eyes imparting.
Soft desire and amorous care,
Through my breast his arrows darting,
Lives and reigns a tyrant there.
On thy cheek with blushes glowing,
When I print the eager kiss,
Heart and soul with joy o'erflowing,
Scarce can bear the thrilling bliss!
Dearest maiden! whilst I hold thee
'Gainst my panting fluttering heart→ Whilst my trembling arms infold thee, Maddening bliss thy charms impart! But too soon my ravish'd senses
Sink beneath oppressive joy: Life and death thy smile dispenses! Bliss and pain alike destroy!
THE FOURTH ODE OF HORACE,
BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.
SOVEREIGN of the song! descend,
And bring the flute of jocund vein,
Its magic influence now to lend,
And breathe a longer, sweeter strain;
Or hadst thou rather pour th' enraptur'd song,
And swell the loftier lyre, and sweep the strings along?
Hear ye or does some pleasing frenzy fire
My soul, and visionary scenes inspire?
I hear, I see, I feel her move
Adown yon consecrated grove,
Yon grove, where Zephy rs gentler wave around,
And murm'ring streamlets yield a softer sound.
Fatigued with sleep and youthful play,
Once as on Isis' banks I lay,
Swift from yon Olympian height
Two heav'n-born doves down shot their airy flight, And from the Muses neighbouring bow'rs
Kindly pluck'd the new-blown flow'rs.
Bestrew'd with these, secure, I lay,
Nor fear'd the Reptile's slimy way,
And all the Swains admir'd around
That dwell on yonder lofty mound,
Or in that modest vale below
Drink the silver streams that flow;
All, all admir'd to see my body bound
With myrtle-wreaths, my temples laurel-crown'd.
If this the Muse in infancy could give,
Long as my soul shall know to live,
Should Cambrian hills my step invite,
Or the bleak northern fields delight,
Should gayer or should busier scenes be mine,
O take me, Goddess! still my soul is thine.
Nor can the battle's furious Lord,
Nor can the Conquerour's crimson sword,
Nor the falling fated tree,
Nor witless Pilot in the midnight sea,
Annoy the breast that feels thy fires,
Dear to thy haunted streams and fairy-footed quires.
Goddess! with thee, I'll tempt the madd'ning main,
Goddess! with thee, I'll tread the burning plain,
With thee, unhurt, I'll seek that savage shore
Where the wild Indians howl for human gore:
For when with War's severer toil opprest,
Now wishing and now seeking gentler rest,
His well-tried troops, disbanded now around,
Heard not the Clarion's animating sound,
But sought their native shore-'twas thou that led And plac'd great * GEORGE beneath thy laurel shade,
"Twas thou that breath'd the milder thought refin'd, That calm'd the swelling soul, and tun'd the Warriour mind.
Thus well we know in times of yore,
That he, whose pow'r the ruffled waves adore,
That he, th' almighty Father Jove,
Whose nod the high-born Sons of Heav'n can move, 'Alone who governs with impartial sway
The drear domains of night, and realms of day, He was the God, that smote with thund'ring hand The giant Sons of Earth, an iron impious band.
Yet could the Titan brothers bold,
Of hundred arms, and horrid air,
Tear from each base the mountains old,
And strike the soul of Jove with fear;
Lab'ring to lift the uptorn Pelion high,
And heave that mighty mass of mountains to the sky.
But what could then TYPHŒUS do?
Or what the curst and rebel crew?
For let them boast their monstrous size,
Terrific ev'n t' immortal eyes;
Their brandish'd trunks Q let them wield,
Their vastest pow'r how weak, when PALLAS lifts her shield!
|