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See, wild as the winds o'er the desart he flies; 110
Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries....
Ah see, he dies !
Yet ev’n in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;
Eurydice the woods,
115 Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And Fate's severest rage disarm :
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And ange's lean from heav'n to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n :
His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Her's lift the soul to heay'u.
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.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
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
Together mix'd; sweet recreation ;
And innocence, which most does please,
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die ;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL,
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying;
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature! cease thy strife,
And let me lauguish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away.
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 !
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring :
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
DR. JOHN DONNE,
DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S,
Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes
Quærere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes
YES, thank my stars ! as early as I knew
This town, I had the sense to hate it too;
Yet here, as ev'n in hell, there must be still
One giant vice so excellently ill,
That all beside one pities, not abhors,
5 As who knows Sappho smiles at other whores.
SATIRE II. SIR, tho' (I thank God for it) I do hate Perfectly all this town, yet there's one state In all things so excellently best, That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest.
I grant that poetry's a crying sin; It brought (no doubt) the Excise and Army in: Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is starving all allow.
10 Yet like Papists is the poet's state, Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!
Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an actor live: The thief condemn'd, in law already dead, 15 So prompts and saves a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of some carv'd organ move, The gilded puppets dance and mount above: Heav'n by th’ breath th’ inspiring bellows blow; Th’ inspiring bellows lie and pant below. 20
Tho' poetry, indeed, be such a siu
As I think brings death and Spaniards in ;
Tho', like the pestilence and old-fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove
Never till it be starv'd out; yet their state
Is poor, disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate :
One (like a wretch, which at bar judg'd as dead,
Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read,
And saves his life) gives idiot actors means,
(Starving himself) to live by's labour'd scenes.
As in some organs puppets dance above,
And bellows pant below which them dọ move,