Restore, restore Eurydice to life; He sung, Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!— A conquest how hard and how glorious! Yet Music and Love were victorious. But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes; Beside the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, Unheard, unknown, 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 e'en in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung. Music the fiercest grief can charm, And make despair and madness please: And antedate the bliss above. And to her Maker's praise confined the sound. 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. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 125 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, Bless'd who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day: Sound sleep by night; study and ease Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Tell where I lie. ODE. The Dying Christian to his Soul. VITAL spark of heavenly flame! Hark! they whisper; angels say, 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! TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS. Chorus of Athenians. STROPHE I. YE shades, where sacred truth is sought; In vain your guiltless laurels stood War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades, ANTISTROPHE I. O heaven-born sisters! source of art! Who lead fair Virtue's train along, To what new clime, what distant sky, Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore? Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more? STROPHE II. When Athens sinks by fates unjust, Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, ANTISTROPHE II. Ye gods! what justice rules the ball? In every age, in every state! Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds. Chorus of Youths and Virgins. SEMICHORUS. O tyrant Love; hast thou possess'd And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame. |