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Less than a god they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum
Cries ‘Hark! the foes come ;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

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Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion

For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise ?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees unrooted left their place

Sequacious of the lyre :
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher :
When to her Organ vocal breath was given
An Angel heard, and straight appeard--

Mistaking Earth for heaven !

Grand Chorus.

As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

J. Dryden.

III.

LXXXVII.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.

AVENGE, O Lord ! thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones
Forget not : In thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolld
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

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The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heaven. Their martyrd blood and ashes sow
O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant, that from these may grow
A hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

J. Milton.

IV.

LXXXVIII. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN

FROM IRELAND.

The forward youth that would appear,
Must now forsake his Muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour's rust,

Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

10

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,

But through adventurous war
Urgéd his active star :

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,

Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide :

For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;

And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;

And Caesar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry heaven's flame;

And if we would speak true,
Much to the Man is due

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere,

(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot)

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,

And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould.

Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient Rights in vain-

But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak.

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Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

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What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar ?

And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,

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Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope

That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook's narrow case,

That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn :

While round the arméd bands
Did clap their bloody hands :

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;

Nor call’d the Gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;

But bow'd his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

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-This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forced power :

So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,

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And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed :

So much one man can do
That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest

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