Such is the power of mighty love !
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode
When he to fair Olympia prest,
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the

world.
— The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ;
A present deity! they shout around :
A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound :
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god ;
Affects to nod
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician

sung:
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young :
The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums !
Flush'd with a purple grace
He shows his honest face :
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes !
Bacchus, ever fair and

young,
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.

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

the slain !
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ;
And while he Heaven and Earth defied
Changed 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
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed ;
On the bare earth ed he lies
With not a friend to close his eyes.
- With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul
The various turns of Chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled 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 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, O 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,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused 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 opprest
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again : A 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 raised up his head :
As awaked from the dead
And amazed he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise !
See the snakes that they rear
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes !
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand !
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain :
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew !
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
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

destroy ;
Thais led the way
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen, fired another Troy !

--Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn’d to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
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!

J. Dryden

The Golden Treasury

Book Third

CLII

ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM

VICISSITUDE

Now the golden Morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She woos the tardy Spring :
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,

Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance

The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light,
Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind Ay;
Mute was the music of the air,

The herd stood drooping by :
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past misfortune's brow

Soft reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw

A melancholy grace ;
While hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy pleasure leads,

See a kindred grief pursue ;
Behind the steps that misery treads

Approaching comfort view :
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life
See the wretch that long has tost

On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost

And breathe and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

T. Gray

CLIII
ODE TO SIMPLICITY
O Thou, by Nature taught

To breathe her genuine thought
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong ;

Who first, on mountains wild,

In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!

Thou, who with hermit heart,

Disdain'st the wealth of art,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,

But com’st, a decent maid

In Attic robe array'd,
O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call !