See, wild as the winds o'er the desart he flies; 110 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. VII. Music the fiercest grief can charm, 115 And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound. 125 130 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. 134 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, 5 Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, Bless'd, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away, 10 In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day. Sound sleep by night; study and ease And innocence, which most does please, 15 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die ; Steal from the world, and not a stone ODE. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 1. VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! II. Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away. What is this absorbs me quite ! 5 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 10 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my Soul! can this be Death? III. The world recedes; it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting? 15 THE SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST. Paul's, VERSIFIED. 1040 Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes HOR. SATIRE II. YES, thank my stars! as early as I knew This town, I had the sense to hate it too; Yet here, as ev'n in hell, there must be still One giant vice so excellently ill, That all beside one pities, not abhors, As who knows Sappho smiles at other whores. SATIRE II. SIR, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate Perfectly all this town, yet there's one state In all things so excellently best, 5 That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest. I grant that poetry's a crying sin; It brought (no doubt) the Excise and Army in: Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is starving all allow. Yet like Papists is the poet's state, Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate! Tho' poetry, indeed, be such a sin 10 15 20 As I think brings death and Spaniards in ; |