They are neither man nor woman- And their king it is who tolls; A Rolls, pæan from the bells! With the pæan of the bells! To the pæan of the bells- Keeping time, time, time, To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells; To the tolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. EDGAR ALLAN POE THOSE EVENING BELLS. THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 't will be when I am gone- THOMAS MOORE ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 609 ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.-AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 'T was at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft, in awful state, The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; (So should desert in arms be crowned); None but the brave deserves the fair. CHORUS. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre; The song began from Jove, When he to fair Olympia pressed, The listening crowd admire the lofty sound- The monarch hears, Assumes the god, And seems to shake the spheres. CHORUS. With ravished ears And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musi cian sung Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young; The jolly god in triumph comes: Sound the trumpets; beat the drums! Flushed with a purple grace, He shows his honest face; Now give the hautboys breath-he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; CHORUS. Bacchus' blessings are a treasure; Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. 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- And weltering in his blood; Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole; And tears began to flow. CHORUS. 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 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Never ending, still beginning- Lovely Thais sits beside thee Take the goods the gods provide thee. The many rend the sky 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 locked, 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. CHORUS. The prince unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head! 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! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain, Behold how they toss their torches on Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were muteTimotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 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- And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. desire. At last divine Cecilia came, The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. THE PASSIONS. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skiesShe drew an angel down. THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 611 WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire, With woful measures wan Despair, But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair- And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still, through all the song; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste frown, Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stained 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 woe! 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, unaltered mein, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved 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, Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, fixed Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love-now, raving, called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of Peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known! Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un. bound; And he, amidst his frolic play, O Music! sphere-descended maid, WILLIAM COLLINE. |