The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair,
Who caus'd his care;
And sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd and looked;
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :
At length with love and wine at once oppress'd,
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 rais'd up his head,
As awaken'd 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 unbury'd, 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 seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy: Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey;
And, like another Helen-fir'd another Troy.
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,
Enlarg'd 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,
Ah! few shall part where many meet,
The snow shall be their winding sheet
And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refined :
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
With one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures. wan Despair-
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air:
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong:
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song :
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smil'd and waved her golden. hair
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;
And with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight-seemed bursting from his
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd:
And, now it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate.
With eyes uprais'd, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes, by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul,
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling, runnels join'd the sound:
Through glades and glooms, the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, Oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rụng,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak crown'd Sisters, and their chaste ey'd Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen,
Peeping forth from alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear;
And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial,
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd-
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol;
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower
You learn'd in all commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in the elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
XII. ENUMERATION, OR AMPLIFICATION. Enumeration is that figure which numbers up the perfections or defects of persons or things, or which brings under one head the several parts of an argument, and, like the concentration of artillery in battle, when brought to act upon any given point, bears down all before it. This figure admits of various modes of delivery, agreeably to the nature of the subjects which may be enumerated, but monotone is recurred to oftener than any other mode.
"Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around
Of hills and dales, of woods, and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all
The stretching landscape into sinoke decays."
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