Abbildungen der Seite

Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade ;
And seas, and rocks, and skies, rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms;

But when through all the infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as death, the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'a,
O'er all the dreary coasts !
Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,
Hollow groads,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts !
But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And, see! the tortur'd ghosts respire ;
See, shady forms advance!
Thy stone, O Sisyphus ! stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance;
The furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.


By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er the' Elysian flowers ;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or amarantbine bowers ;
By the heroes' armed shades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,

Restore, restore Eurydice to life;
Ob, take the husband, or return the wife -
He sung, and hell consented
To hear the poet's pray'r:
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail
D'er death and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious !
Though 'fate had fast bound her,
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and love were victorious.

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, All alone, Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan; And calls her ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost ! Now with furies surrounded, Despairing, confounded, He trembles, he glows, Amidst Rhodope's snows: See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hæmus 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, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

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.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
The' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And angels lean from Heav'n to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n:
His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Her's lift the soul to Heav'n.

TVritten 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 avay,
Iu health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day :

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd ; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.



VITAL spark of heavenly flame!

Quit, О quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying ; Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature! cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.

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 soul! can this be death?

The world recedes ; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring :
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount! I fly!

grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?


To Sir William Trumbal.
IRST in these fields I try the silvan strains,

Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains :
Fair Thames ! flow gently from thy sacred spring,
While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing;
Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play,
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.

You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r, Enjoy the glory to be great no more, And, carrying with you all the world can boast, To all the world illustriously are lost! O let my muse her slender reed inspire, Till in your native shades you tune the lyre : So when the nightingale to rest removes, The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves; But charm'd to silence, listens while she sings, And all the aërial audience clap their wings.

Soon as the focks shook off the nightly dews, Two swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the muse, Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care, Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair ; The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side, Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied :

Daph. Hear how the birds on every blooming spray With joyous music wake the dawning day! Why sit we mute, when early linnets sing, When warbling Philomel salutes the spring ? Why sit we sad, when Phosphor shines so clear, And lavish Nature paints the purple year?

Streph.Siug then,and Damon shall attend the straip, While yon slow oxen turn the furrow'd plain : Here the bright crocus and blue violet glow; Here western winds on breathing roses blow. l'il stake yon lamb, that near the fountain plays, And from the brink his dancing shade surveys.

Daph. And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines, And swelling clusters bend the curling vines :

« ZurückWeiter »