The song began from Jove, When he to fair Olympia press'd: And while he sought her snowy breast: Then, round her slender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity, they shout around: A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: The monarch hears And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung, The jolly god in triumph comes ; He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Drinking joys did first ordain; 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; Where is the kindred spirit, Earth's riches, and be blest? So pass the dreams of ages, New wisdom can efface; Yes; what upheld the martyr When he refused to barter They hoped the world's wide nations No; by the babe's devotion And by her deep emotion Its early trust to see; And by the bond of union, The faithful here may prove, Of ransom'd ones above, MY TOMB. Translated from BERANGER. ERECT me a tomb, while in spirits and health, In our mansion, balls, concerts, and beauty, I guess, But I'm stricken in years, and my mistress is not; And this let the splendour of Longchamps confess. I wish for no grand private box in the place, Where spectres as actors are treading the stage; That wretch with sunk eyeball and wobegone faceMake warm his cold heart in the night of his age. To the beggar, who, leaving his wallet, shall sit, What boots it to me, that my name shall appear On a stone, by some scholar decipher'd and spelt ? For the flowers which, they say, shall be strewn on my bier, 'Twere better, methinks, could their fragrance be felt. Posterity!-that which, perchance, may not be Be warned that you never need hope to illume My grave with your torch: dear philosophers, see, How I toss thro' the window the cost of my tomb! ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. An Ode in honour of St. Cecilia's Day. By JOнn Dryden. 'Twas 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 crown'd:) The lovely Thais by his side, Sate 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, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, When he to fair Olympia press'd: And while he sought her snowy breast: Then, round her slender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity, they shout around: A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: The monarch hears And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung, He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Drinking joys did first ordain; 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; |