Though fate had fast bound her, But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes; Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. Now under hanging mountains, Beside the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, Unheard, unknown, For ever, ever, ever lost! He trembles, he glows, Amidst Rhodope's snows: See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hamus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries Ah see, he dies! Yet e'en in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue; Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung. Music the fiercest grief can charm, And make despair and madness please: And antedate the bliss above. This the divine Cecilia found, And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound. ODE ON SOLITUDE. WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS ABOUT TWELVE YEARS OLD. 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. Bless'd who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away, Sound sleep by night; study and ease And innocence, which most does please Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO.1 BEGONE, ye critics, and restrain your spite, 1 Elkanah Settle. Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head. ODE. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. VITAL spark of heavenly flame, 2 Perhaps Flecknoe, or Shadwell. Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away. What is this absorbs me quite, Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O death! where is thy sting? TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.1 CHORUS OF ATHENIANS. STROPHE I. YE shades, where sacred truth is sought; In vain your guiltless laurels stood War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades, 1 A play written by John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham. |