Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 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, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum 6 Cries, Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is 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, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach, The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : Grand Chorus As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour J. Dryden LXIV ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT AVENGE, O Lord! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Forget not: In thy book record their groans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 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 'HE forward youth that would appear, THE forward youth that would appe Nor in the shadows sing '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, His fiery way divide: For 't is all one to courage high The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. 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 Though Justice against Fate complain, Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war 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. |