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Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he
Bacchus, ever fair and young, [comes!
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.

Sooth'd 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,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,
Fall'n from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast look the joyless victor fate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of fate below;
And now and then a sigh he stole ;
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love."

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War he sung his toil and trouble;
Honor but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee,
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So love was crown'd, but music won the cause,
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair

Who caus'd his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :
At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again;
And louder, yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And amaz'd, he stares around!

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And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.
Thus, long ago,

Ere heavenly bellows learnt to blow,
While organs yet were mute;

Timotheus to his breathing flute

And sounding lyre

[sire

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft de.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, [before,
Or both divide the crown;

He rais'd a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.

$ 100. An Epistle from Mr. Phillips to the Earl of Dorset. Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams that northern winds forbid to flow.

What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight
All pleasing objects that to verse invite.
The flow'ry plains, and silver streaming floods.
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,
By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie,
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.
No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring,
No birds within the desert region sing.
The ships, unmov'd, the boist'rous winds defy,
The vast Leviathan wants room to play,
While rattling chariots a'er the ocean fly.
And spout his waters in the face of day.
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl,
And to the moon in icy valleys howl.
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain :
For many a shining league the level main,
There solid billows, of enormons size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise,
And yet but lately have I seen, e'en here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.

Ere

Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds begun thro' hazy skies to blow, At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose ; And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view The face of nature, in a rich disguise, And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes: For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass, And ev'ry pointed thorn,scem'd wrought in glass; In pearls and rubies rich the haw thorns show, While thro' the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds the wai'ry marshes yield Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field. The flag, in limpid currents, with surprise Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise. The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine." The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, That wave and glitter in the distant sun, When, if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies: The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, And in a spangled show'r the prospect ends; Or, if a southern gale the region warm, And by degrees unbind the wintry charm, The traveller a miry country sees, And journey sad beneath the dropping trees. Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads; While here enchanting gardens to him rise, And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, His wand'ring feet the magic paths pursue; And, while he thinks the fair illusion true, The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear, A tedious road the weary wretch returns, And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

§ 101. The Man of Sorrow. GREVILLE.

AH! what avails the lengthening mead,
By Nature's kindest bounty spread
Along the vale of flow'rs!
Ah! what avails the darkening grove,
Or Philomel's melodious love,

That glads the midnight hours!
For me, alas! the god of day,
Ne'er glitters on the hawthorn spray,
Nor night her comfort brings:
I have no pleasure in the rose;
For me no vernal beauty blows,
Nor Philomela sings.

See how the sturdy peasants stride.
Adown yon hillock's verdant side,
In cheerful ign'rance blest!
Alike to them the rose or thorn,
Alike arises every morn,
By gay contentment drest.
Content, fair daughter of the skies,
Or gives spontaneous, or denies,
Her choice divinely free:

She visits oft the hamlet cot,
When Want and Sorrow are the lot
Of Avarice and me.

But see or is it Fancy's dream?
Methought a bright celestial gleam
Shot sudden thro' the groves;
Behold, behold, in loose array,
Euphrosyne, more bright than day,
More mild than Paphian doves!
Welcome, oh welcome, Pleasure's queen!
And see, along the velvet green

The jocund train advance:
With scatter'd flow'rs they fill the air;
The wood-nymph's dew-bespangled hair
Plays in the sportive dance.

Ah! baneful grant of angry Heaven,
When to the feeling wretch is given
A soul alive to joy!
Joys fly with every hour away,
And leave th' unguarded heart a prey
To cares that peace destroy.

And
see, with visionary haste
(Too soon) the gay delusion past,
Reality remains!
Despair has seis'd my captive soul.;
And horror drives without control,

And slackens still the reins.

Ten thousand beauties round me throng;
What beauties, say, ye nymphs, belong

To the distemper'd soul?
I see the lawn of hideous dye;
The towering elm nods misery;

With groans the waters roll.
Ye gilded roofs, Palladian domes,
Ye vivid tints of Persia's looms,

Ye were for misery made.--
'Twas thus, the Man of Sorrow spoke;
His wayward step then pensive took
Along th' unhallow'd shade.

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Come then, some Muse, the saddest of the train (No more your bard shall dwell on idle lays) Teach me each moving melancholy strain,

And oh discard the pageantry of phrase: Ill suits the flow'rs of speech with woes like mine! Thus, haply, as I paint

The source of iny complaint, My soul may own th' impassion'd line: A Hood of tears may gush to my relief, [of grief. And from my swelling heart discharge this load Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear

To wound my cars with the sad tales you tell; "How good she was, how gentle, and how fair!" In pity cease-alas! I know too well How in her sweet expressive face

Bean'd forth the beauties of her mind, Yet heighten'd by exterior grace,

Of manners most engaging, most refin'd!

No piteous object could she see,

But her soft bosom shar'd the woe,
While smiles of affability

Endear'd whatever boon she might bestow.
Whate'er th' emotions of her heart,

Still shone conspicuous in her eyes,
Stranger to every female art,

Alike to feign or to disguise:

And, oh the boast how rare! The secret in her faithful breast repos'd She ne'er with lawless tongue disclos'd,

In secret silence lodg'd inviolate there. Oh feeble words-unable to express Her matchless virtues, or my own distress! Relentless death! that, steel'd to human woe, With murd'rous hands deals havoc on mankind.

But, ah ! in vain-no change of time or
The memory can efface

[place Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air, Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and despair.

Where were the delegates of Heav'n, oh where Had Innocence or Virtue been their care, Appointed Virtue's children safe to keep?

She had not died, nor had I liv'd to weep:
Mov'd by my tears, and by her patience mov'd,
To see or force th' endearing smile,
My sorrows to beguile,
When Torture's keenest rage she prov'd;
Sure they had warded that untimely dart,
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a
husband's heart.

How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,
When, feeling Death's resistless pow'r,
My hand she press'd, wet with her falling tears,
And thus, in falt'ring accents, spoke her fears:
Ah, my lov'd lord, the transient scene is o'er,
"And we must part, alas! to meet uo more!
But oh! if e'er thy Emma's name was dear,
"If e'er thy vows have charm'd my ravishd

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"ear;

"If, from thy lov'd embrace my heart to gain, "Proud friends have frown'd, and Fortune "smil'd in vain ;

"If it has been my sole endeavour still

"

To act in all obsequious to thy will; "To watch thy very similes, thy wish to know, "Then only truly blest when thou wert so; "If I have doated with that fond excess, "Nor Love could add, nor Fortune make it less; "If this I've done, and more-oh then be kind "To the dear lovely babe I leave behind. "When time my once-lov'd memory shall efface, "Some happier maid may take thy Emma's "place,

"With envious eyes thy partial fondness see, "And hate it, for the love thou bor'st to me:

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My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears; "But one word more I cannot bear thy tears"Promise and I will trust thy faithful vow "(Oft have I tried, and never found thee true) That to some distant spot thou wilt remove This fatal pledge of hapless Emma's love, 'Where safe thy blandishments it may partake, "And, oh! be tender, for its mother's sake. "Wilt thou?---

Why (cruel!) strike this deprecated blow,
And leave such wretched multitudes behind?"
Hark! groans come wing'd on ev'ry breeze!

The sons of grief prefer their ardent vow,
Oppress'd with sorrow, want, or dire disease,
And supplicate thy aid, as I do now:

"

"I know thou wilt-sad silence speaks assent, And, in that pleasing hope, thy Emma dies "'content."

In vain perverse, still on th' unweeting head"
"Tis thine thy vengeful darts to shed;
Hope's infant blossoms to destroy,
And drench in tears the face of joy.
But oh, fell tyrant! yet expect the hour
When Virtue shall renounce thy pow'r ;
When thou no more shall blot the face of day,
Nor mortals tremble at thy rigid sway.
Alas the day!--where'er I turn my eyes,
Some sad memento of my loss appears;
I fly the fatal house-suppress my sighs,
Resolv'd to dry my unavailing tears ?

[day

I, who with more than manly strength have bore
The various ills impos'd by cruel Fate,
Sustain the firmness of my soul no more,
But sink beneath the weight:
Just Heav'n! I cried, from memory's earliest
Nocomfort has thy wretched suppliant known
Misfortune still, with unrelenting sway,
Has claim'd me for her own.
But oh! in pity to my grief, restore
This only source of bliss; I ask --I ask no more—

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When the stern tyrant clos'd her lovely eyes,
How did I rave, untaught to bear the blow!
With impious wish to tear her from the skies,
How curse my fate in bitterness of woe!
But whither would this dreadful phrensy
Fond man forbear,
[lead
Thy fruitless sorrow spare, [creed:
Dare not to ask what Heaven's high will de-
In humble rev'rence kiss th' afflictive rod,
And prostrate bow to an offended God.
Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow,
Some saving truth thy roving soul to teach;
To wean thy heart from grovelling views below,
And point out bliss beyond misfortune's
reach:

To show that all the flatt'ring schemes of joy,
Which tow'ring Hope so fondly builds in air,
One fatal moment can destroy,
And plunge th' exulting maniac in despair.
Then, oh! with pious fortitude sustain
Thy present loss-haply thy future gain;

Nor let thy Enima die in vain :
Time shall administer its wonted balm, [calm.
And hush this storm of grief to no unpleasing
Thus the poor bird, by some disastrous fate
Caught, and imprison'd in a lonely cage,
Torn from its native fields, and dearer mate,
Flutters awhile, and spends its little rage:
But finding all its efforts weak and vain,
No more it pants and rages for the plain;
Moping awhile, in sullen mood

Droops the sweet mourner-but ere long Prunes its light wings, and pecks its foud, And meditates the song:

Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, And with its plaintive warblings saddens all the place.

Forgiveme, Heaven,—yet, yet the tears will flow,
To think how soon my scene of bliss is past!
My budding joys, just promising to blow,
All nipp'd and wither'd by one envious blast!
My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away,
Move heavily along;
[song?
Where's now the sprightly jest, the jocund
Time creeps, unconscious of delight:
How shall I 'cheat the tedious day;
And oh- the joyless night!
Where shall I rest my weary head?
How shall I find repose on a sad widow'd bed?
Come Thehan drug, the wretch's only aid,
To my torn heart its former peace restore;
Thy votary, wrapp'd in thy Lethean shade,
Awhile shall cease his sorrows to deplore ;
Haply, when lock'd in sleep's embrace,
Again I shall behold my Emma's face,

Again with transport hear Her voice soft whispering in my ear; May steal once more a balmy kiss, And taste at least of visionary bliss. But, ah! th' unwelcome morn's obtruding light Will all my shadowy schemes of bliss depose, Will tear the dear illusion from my sight, And wake me to the sense of all my woes: If to the verdant fields I stray. Alas! what pleasures now can these convey? Her lovely form pursues where'er I go, And darkens all the scene with woe. By Nature's lavish bounties cheer'd no more, Sorrowing I rove

Through valley, grot, and grove; Nought can their beauties or my loss restore; No herb, no plant, can ined'cine my disease, And my sad sighs are borne on ev'ry passing my bed,

breeze.

Sickness and sorrow hov'ring round

Who now with anxious haste shall bring relief, With lenient hand support my drooping head, 1 Assuage my pains, and mitigate my grief? Should worldly business call away,

Who now shall in my absence fondly mourn, Count ev'ry minute of the loit'ring day, Impatient for my quick return? Should ought my bosom discompose, Who now, with sweet complacent air, Shall smooth the rugged brow of Care,

And soften all my woes? Too faithful Memory cease, oh cease — How shall l'e'er regain my peace? (Oh, to forget her!)-but how vain each art, Whilst ev'ry virtue lives imprinted on my heart! And thou, my little cherub, left behind,

To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes, When reason's dawn informs thy infant mind,

And thy sweet lisping tongue shall askthecause, How oft with sorrow shall mine eyes run o'er,] When, twining round my knees, I trace

Thy mothers smile upon thy face! How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore Sad memory of my joys-ah, now no more! By blessings once enjoy'd now more distress'd, More beggar by the riches once possess'd, My little darling! - dearer to me grown

to hear!

By all the tears thou'st caus'doh, strange Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own, Thy cradle purchas'd with thy mother's bier : Who now shall seek, with fond delight, Thy infant steps to guide aright? She, who with doating eyes would gaze On all thy little artless ways,

By all thy soft endearments blest, And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast Alas! is gone yet shalt thou prove

A father's dearest, tenderest love; And, O sweet senseless smiler, (envied state!) As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate,

♥ Laudanum,

When

12

When years thy judgement shall mature,
And Reason shows those ills it cannot cure,

Wilt thou a father's grief t' assuage,
For virtue prove the Phoenix of the earth
(Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth)
And be the comfort of my age?

When sick and languishing I lie,
Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply?

And oft as to thy listening ear
Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell,

Say wilt thou drop the tender tear,
Whilst on the mournful theme I dwell ?
Then, fondly stealing to thy father's side,

Whene'er thou seest the soft distress,
Which I would vainly seek to hide,

Say, wilt thou strive to make it less?
To sooth my sorrows all thy cares employ,
And in my cup of grief, infuse one drop of joy?

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SWEET bird! that, kindly perching near,
Pourest thy plaints melodious in mine ear;
Not, like base, worldlings, tutor' to forego
The melancholy haunts of woe;

Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain:
For, surely, thou hast known to prove,
Like we, the of hapless love;
pangs
Else why so feelingly complain, [grove?
And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the
Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate,

That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung?
Or has the cruel hand of Fate

Bereft thee of thy darling young?

Alas! for both I weep:

In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms
A lovely babe, that should have liv'd to bless,
And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears,
At once the source of rapture and distress,

The flattering prop of my declining years!
In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,

By ev'ry art that science could devise;
Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,
And wing'd its fight to seek her in the skies.
Then, oh! our comforts be the same,
At evening's peaceful hour,

To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame,
And breathe our sorrows in this lonely
bow'r.

But why, alas! to thee complain,
To thee unconscious of my pain?
Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year :·

The genial warmth of joy renewing spring
Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart shall transport prove,

Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy But, oh! for me in vain may seasons roll, [love. Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears: Deploring still the comfort of my soul,

I count my sorrows by increasing years. :

Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,

Where is thy promis'd period of my woes? Full three long ling'ring years have roll'd away, And yet I weep a stranger to repose:

O what delusion did thy tongue employ! "That Emma's fatal pledge of love,

"Her last bequest, with all a mother's care, "The bitterness of sorrow should remove, "Soften the horrors of despair,

"And cheer a heart long lost to joy!" How oft, when fondling in my arms, Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face,

My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
And oh what flatt'ring scenes had fancy feign'd!
How did I rave of blessings yet in store!
Till ev'ry aching sense was sweetly pain'd,

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And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more.

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"Just Heaven!" I cried, with recent hopes elate,
Yet will I live-will live thro' Emma's dead:
So long bow'd down beneath the storms of fate,
"Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head!
"My little Emma, now my all,

66

Will want a father's care;

"Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recal, "And, for her sake, the ills of life I'll bear: "And oft together we 'll complain,

66

Complaint the only bliss my soul can know: "From me my child shall learn the mournful "strain,

"And prattle tales of woe.

"And, oh! in that auspicious hour,
"When fate resigns her persecuting pow'r,
"With duteous zeal her hand shall close,
"No more to weep, mysorrow-streamingeyes,
When death gives misery repose,

"And opes a glorious passage to the skies."
Vain thought! it must not be-she too is dead,
The flattering scene is o'er;
My hopes for ever, ever fled;

And vengeance can no more.
Crush'd by misfortune, blasted by disease,

And none none left to bear a friendly part!
To meditate my welfare, health, or ease,

Or sooth the anguish of an aching heart! Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome death, With lenient hand (oh falsely deeni'd severe), Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath, And dry up ev'ry tear.

Perhaps, obsequious to my will,

But ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The last sad office strangers my fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been belov'd;

As if unconscious of poetic fire,

I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre:
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.
Yet, while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form th'impassion'd
strain,.

In piteous accents shall the muse complain,
And dwell with fond delay on blessings past:

For

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