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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 spires he rode,

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:
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 shows his honest face:

Now give the hautboys breath; 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.

he comes.

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;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse :

Where is the kindred spirit,
With weary endless quest,
Still hoping to inherit

Earth's riches, and be blest?
No more beside his furnace
The alchemist may bend-
No more, in lonely sternness,
His secret labours tend.
We have a bolder wisdom
To multiply our gold,
An open craft to supersede
That strongest dream of old.

So pass the dreams of ages,

And leave but little trace,
Visions of bards and sages,

New wisdom can efface;
Dreams, that have won the fearful

To hope for better days;
Dreams that have fill'd the cheerful
With terror and amaze!
All pass-doth nothing linger
With deathless things enroll'd,
That shall not perish and depart,
Amidst the dreams of old?

Yes; what upheld the martyr
Amidst the final strife,

When he refused to barter
This holy faith for life?
What cheer'd the pilgrim strangers
To lofty thought and deed,
To sow, 'midst death and dangers,
The gospel's sacred seed?

They hoped the world's wide nations
Its fruit should yet behold,

And was their glorious faith a dream,
A fading dream of old ?

No; by the babe's devotion
Lisp'd at his mother's knee,
And by her deep emotion
Its early trust to see;

And by the bond of union,
The faithful here may prove,
And by the blest communion

Of ransom'd ones above,
We feel that here no vision
Was with the pass'd enroll'd,
That the Christian faith may never be
A baseless dream of old!

MY TOMB.

Translated from BERANGER.

ERECT me a tomb, while in spirits and health,

At such wonderful cost, too!-good people, not yet!
"Twere a folly, methinks, thus to squander your wealth;
To the rich leave the pomp and the pride of regret.
With the price of the marble or bronze-far too fine
A grave dress for beggars like me to assume,
Go, purchase old wine-life-inspiriting wine!
Let's live, and quaff gaily the cost of my tomb!

A gallant memorial would cost-let me see !
Some hundreds, at least:-O, my frends, let us fly;
Come, live for six months, gay recluses with me,
In a beautiful vale with a beautiful sky.

In our mansion, balls, concerts, and beauty, I guess,
Can pleasantly furnish each rapturous room;
I would risk loving life to too great an excess;"

Let us live, and spend gaily the cost of my tomb!

But I'm stricken in years, and my mistress is not;
And I think that she's rather expensive in dress;
In the blaze of our persons our fasts are forgot,

And this let the splendour of Longchamps confess.
From my friends to my lady love, something is due;
She expects a cachemere of some elegant loom;
As a life-use, to wear on her bosom so true,
Let us gaily dispose of the cost of my tomb.

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,
And, before me, see drawn up the curtain of doom,
(That, at last, he may keep me a place in the pit,)
Let us gaily dispose of the cost of my tomb.

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 JOHN 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,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love.)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,

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:
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 shows 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.

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;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse :

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