By the heroes' armed shades, Wand'ring in the myrtle grove ;-- 80 Restore, restore Eurydice to life: Oh, take the husband, or return the wife! He sung, and Hell consented To hear the poet's pray'r; 85 Stern Proserpine relented, And gave him back the fair. Thus song could prevail O'er death and o'er hell, A conquest how hard and how glorious! With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious. VI. But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes; Beside the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, All alone, Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan; And calls her ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost! 105 Despairing, confounded, Now with Furies surrounded, 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 ev'n in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue; Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Euoydice the rocks and hollow mountains, rung. 'VII. Music the fiercest grief can charm, And Fate's severest rage disarm: Music can soften pain to ease, And make despair and madness please ; Our joys below it can improve, And antedate the bliss above. This the divine Cecilia found, And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound. Volume III, 130 P. 134 Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell; 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, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. I. VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! II. Hark! they whisper; angels say, 'Sister Spirit, come away.' What is this absorbs me quite! Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my Sou!! can this be Death? III. The world recedes; it disappears! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting? 5 10 18 THE SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S, VERSIFIED. Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legences Mcelius? SATIRE II. YES, thank my stars! as early as I knew That all beside one pities, not abhors, As who knows Sappho smiles at other whores. It brought (no doubt) th' Excise and Army in: HOR. SATIRE II. SIB, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate Perfectly all this Town, yet there's one state In all ill things so excellently best, That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest. Tho' poetry, indeed, be such a sin, As I think, that brings death and Spaniards in; |