Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See how from far, upon the eastern road, And join thy voice unto the angel quire From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. THE HYMN It was the winter wild While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : Grand Chorus As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour 7. Dryden LXIV ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT AVENGE, O Lord! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Forget not: In thy book record their groans Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow The triple tyrant, that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. J. Milton LXV HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND THE HE forward youth that would appear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease And like the three-fork'd lightning first, For 't is all one to courage high The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. "Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservéd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot) Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient Rights in vain But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak. Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part Where, twining subtle fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the Royal actor borne While round the armed bands He nothing common did or mean Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow'd his comely head Down, as upon a bed. - This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcéd power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line, A Bleeding Head, where they begun, And yet in that the State And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. |