Timotheus to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown :
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.
WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Roscommon, and nephew of the celebrated Earl of Strafford. His chief poem is " Essay on Translated Verse," of which the following is an extract.
THE MODEST MUSE.
How nice the reputation of the maid!
Your early kind paternal care appears
By chaste instruction of her tender years.
The first impression in her infant breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not austerity breed servile fear;
No wanton sound offend her virgin ear.
Immodest words admit of no defence,
For want of decency is want of sense.
Secure from foolish pride's affected state,
And specious flattery's more pernicious bait;
Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts;
But your neglect must answer for her faults.
THOMAS KEN, Bishop of Bath and Wells, was born in Hertfordshire in 1637. Though a man of unyielding conscientiousness, he was made a bishop by Charles II. He was one of the seven prelates sent to the Tower for opposing the usurpations of James II. He is chiefly known as the author of the "Morning, Evening, and Midnight Hymns."
EVENING HYMN.
ALL praise to Thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light :
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Under the shadow of thy wings.
Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,
The ill that I this day have done,
That with the world, myself, and Thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.
O let my soul on Thee repose,
And with sweet sleep mine eyelids close;
Sleep that shall me more vig'rous make
To serve my God when I awake.
If in the night I sleepless lie,
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No powers of darkness me molest.
Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed;
Teach me to die, that so I may
With joy behold the judgment day.
ONE of the wits of the court of Charles II., with whom he was a great favourite. He wrote plays and poems greatly admired in his time. songs are, however, his happiest compositions.
TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.
AH! Chloris, that I now could sit
As unconcerned as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure, nor no pain.
When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in a mine;
Age from no face took more away,
Than youth concealed in thine.
But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
Fond love as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.
My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favoured you,
Threw a new flaming dart.
Each gloried in their wanton part;
To make a lover, he
Employed the utmost of his art-
To make a beauty, she.
Though now I slowly bend to love,
Uncertain of my fate,
If your fair self my chains approve,
I shall my freedom hate.
Lovers, like dying men, may well
At first disordered be,
Since none alive can truly tell
What fortune they must see.
Thomas Otway.
Or this unfortunate dramatist not much is known.
Sussex on 3d March 1651, the son of the rector of Wolbeding. He began his connection with the theatre in early life as an actor, in which he had small success; he obtained, however, an acquaintance with dramatic art which enabled him in 1675 to write a play which had a successful run at the theatres, and which he followed by others. From this time till 1685, when he wrote his last play, "Venice Preserved," he was constantly in the deepest poverty through extravagance. He died on 14th April 1685 from sheer starvation.
Enter PRIULI and JAFFIER.
Pri. No more! I'll hear no more! begone, and leave me! Jaffier. Not hear me ! by my sufferings but you shall ! My lord-my lord! I'm not that abject wretch
Patience! where's the distance throws
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak
In right, though proud oppression will not hear me
Pri. Have you not wronged me?
Jaf. Could my nature e'er
Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself
To gain a hearing from a cruel father.
Wronged you?
Pri. Yes, wronged me! in the nicest point,
The honour of my house, you've done me wrong.
You may remember-for I now will speak,
And urge its baseness-when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you looked on
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation;
Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you;
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits;
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too,
My very self, was yours; you might have used me
To your best service; like an open friend
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine;
When, in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherously practised to undo me;
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole her from my bosom.
Oh! Belvidera!
Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her:
Childless had you been else, and in the grave
Your name extinct; no more Priuli heard of.
You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since in your brigantine you sailed to see
The Adriatic wedded by our duke ;
And I was with you: your unskilful pilot
Dashed us upon a rock; when to your boat
You made for safety entered first yourself;
Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was by a wave washed off into the deep;
When instantly I plunged into the sea,
And buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dashed the saucy waves,
That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize. I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms : Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude Rose in her soul: for from that hour she loved me, Till for her life she paid me with herself.
PARTING.
From "The Orphan."
WHERE am I? Sure I wander 'midst enchantment,
And never more shall find the way to rest.
But O Monimia ! art thou indeed resolved
To punish me with everlasting absence?
Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone already!
Methinks I stand upon a naked beach
Sighing to winds and to the seas complaining;
Whilst afar off the vessel sails away,
Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked!
Wilt thou not turn? O could those eyes but speak!
I should know all, for love is pregnant in them!
They swell, they press their beams upon me still!
Wilt thou not speak? If we must part for ever,
Give me but one kind word to think upon,
And please myself with, while my heart is breaking.
WISHED morning's come; and now upon the plains
And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day.
The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip
Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,
With much content and appetite he eats,
To follow in the field his daily toil.
And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits.
The beasts that under the warm hedges slept,
And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up;
And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise
Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow.
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.
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