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Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.
By Philip's warlike son:
On his imperial throne:
(So should desert in arms be crown'd.)
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first;
For why?--they were too big. Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down Into the country far away,
She pulled out half-a-crown; And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell:
My husband safe and well.'
By catching at his rein;
And gladly would have done,
And made him faster run.
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
And heavenly joys inspire.
When he to fair Olympia pressed:
And while he sought her snowy breast:
With ravished ears
Affects to nod,
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry. "Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman ?"
Not one of them was mute;
Did join in the pursuit.
Flew open in short space;
That Gilpin rode a race.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
The jolly god in triumph comes:
Flush'd with a purple grace
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
Now give the hautboys breath. He comes! he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure.
Soothed 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
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries,
See the furies arise!
How they hiss in their hair!
Behold a ghastly band,
The master saw the madness rise;
He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse:
By too severe a fate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
With not a friend to close his eyes.
Revolving in his alter'd soul
The various turns of chance below;
And tears began to flow.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures, War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour, 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.
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
Hark, hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head:
As awaked from the dead,
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,
And unburied remain,
To the valiant crew.
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroys
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And could not heave her head,
Arise, ye more than dead!
And music's power obey.
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony,
The diapason closing full in man.
What passion cannot music raise and quell!
When Juba) struck the chorded shell,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
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,
And mortal alarms.
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.
Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation,
"Nymph of a fair, but erring line!” Gently he said—“One hope is thine, 'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this Eternal Gate
The Gift that is most dear to Heaven! Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin ;'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in!”
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood—the smell of death Came reeking from their spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man,
Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers ! Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy pagods and thy piliar'd shadesThy cavern shrines, and idol stones, Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones?
1 “The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the fire. brands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the verge of the heavens."
: The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace, and the edifices at Baalbec, were built by genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, which still remain there.
3 The Isles of Panchaia.
+ “The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis."
1 “Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the plane-trees upon
7" The Altan Kol, or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands."
3"The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue Campac dowers only in Paradise."
“Be this,” she cried, as she wing'd her light, “My welcome gift at the Gates of Light, Though foul are the drops that oft distill
On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For liberty shed, so holy is,
That sparkles among the bowers of bliss!
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream;
Amid whose fairy loneliness Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard, Naught seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam) Some purple-wing'd sultana“ sitting
Upon a column, motionless And glittering, like an idol bird !
“Sweet,” said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand, "Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who die thus for their native land.-But see—alas !—the crystal bar Of Eden moves not-holier far Than e'en this drop the boon must be, That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"
Who could have thought, that there, e'en there,
1 Mahmood of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the eleventh century.
3“It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmound was so magnificent, that he kept 400 greyhounds and bloodhounds each of which wore a collar set with jewels.
3" The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lunæ of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to rise."
3«The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle doves."