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SIR RICHARD FANSHAW. THOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves

The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives

For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes. Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon ;

What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,

And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,

Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty, doth in bloody leaves

The sentence of thy early death contain. Someclown's coarse lungs will poison thysweetflow'r,

If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn, And many Herods lie in wait each hour,

To murder thee as soon as thou art born, Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath Anticipating life to hasten death.



Or, the Power of Music :
"TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The god-like 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 crown'd.

The lovely Thaïs by his side
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth, and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair!
Timotheus plac'd on high,

Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love !)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of

the world;
The listning crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity! they shout around;
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound :

With ravish'd ears,
The monarch hears,

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician

| sung;
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flush'd with a purple grace,

He shews his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath-he comes, he comes !
Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain:

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Sooth'd 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,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.

He chose a mournful muse,

Soft pity to infuse :
He sung Darius, great and good!

By too severe a fate
Fall'n, fall’n, fall'n, fall'n,

Fall’n from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood :
Deserted, at his utmost 'need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,

And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smild to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
Honour but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying :

If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying !

Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee;

Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause : So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gaz'd on the fair

Who caus'd his care,
Sigh'd and look’d, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look’d, and sigh'd again.
At length, with love and wine at once opprest,
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 rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And, amaz'd, he stares around.

Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries :
See the furies arise !

See the snakes how they rear,

How they hiss in the air !
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 unburied 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 glitt'ring temples of their hostile gode ! The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy:

Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

Thus, long ago,
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,

Or both divide the crown; He rais'd a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.

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