As rings his glittering tube', he lifts on high'
The dauntless brow', and spirit-speaking eye";
Hâils in his heart the triumph yet to come,
And hears thy stormy musick in the drum.
SECTION XII.
Address to Greece.-BYRON.
He'.. who hath bent him o'er the dead',
Ere the first day of death'.. is fled',
The first dark day of nothingness',
The last'.. of danger and distress',
(Before decay's effacing fingers'
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers',)
And marked the mild', angelick air',
The rapture of repose'.. that's there',
The fixed', yet tender', traits that streak'
The languor of the placid cheek',
And'-but for that sad', shrouded eye'
That fires not, wins not, wēēps not'.. now',
And but for that chill', changeless brow',
Where cold obstruction's apathy'
Appals the gazing mourner's heart',
As if to him.. it could impart'
The doom he dreads', yet dwells upon';-
Yes', but for these, and these alone',
Some moments', ay', one treacherous hôûr`
He still might doubt the tyrant's power';
So fair, so câlm', so softly sealed',
The first', last look by death revealed':
SUCH is the aspect of this shore';
'Tis GREECE', but living Greece'... nō mōre'!
So coldly sweet', so deadly fair',
We start,... for sôUL.. is wanting there`.
Hers'.. is the loveliness in death',
That parts not quite with parting breath';
But beauty'.. with that fearful blôôm',
That hue.. which haunts it to the tômb`,
Expression's last receding ray`,
A gilded halo'.. hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling'.. past away!
Spark of that flame', perchance'.. of heavenly birth',
Which gleams', but warms no more its cherished earth!
Clime of the unforgotten brave`!
Whose land'.. from plain to mountain-cave",
Was freedom's home, or glory's grāve`—
Shrine of the mighty! can it be',
That this'.. is all remains of thêê'?
Approach', thou craven', crouching SLAVE`:
Sây, is not this Thermopyla'?
These waters blue'.. that round you lave'—
Oh'! servile offspring of the free'-
Pronounce what sea', what shore'.. is this':
The gulf', the rock of Salamis'!
These scenes'-their story not unknown'--
Arise', and make again your own';
Snatch from the ashes of your sires'
The embers of their former fires';
And he who', in the strife expires',
Will add to theirs a name of fear'
That tyranny shall quake to hear`,
And leave his sons a hōpe', a fame'
They', too', will rather die'.. than shame':
For.. freedom's battle'. . once begun',
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son',
Though baffled oft', is ever won`.
Bear witness', Greece', thy living page',
Attest it', many a deathless age:
While kings', in dusty darkness'.. hid',
Have left a nameless pyramid',
Thy heroes', though the general dōōm'
Hath swept the column from their tomb',
A mightier monument command`,
The mountains'. . of their native land`.
There points thy muse to stranger's eye'
The graves of those that cannot die'.
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace'
Each step from splendour to disgrace';
Enough no foreign foe could quell'
Thy soul', till from itself'.. it fell` :
Yes', self-abasement led the way'
To villain-bonds and despot-sway'.
The Passions.-COLLINS.
When Musick', heavenly maid', was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung',
The Passions oft', to hear her shell',
Thronged around her magick cell'
Exulting, trembling', raging', fainting,
Possessed beyond the muse's painting';
By turns they felt the glowing mind'
Disturbed', delighted`, raised', refined';
Till once', 'tis said', when all were fired',
Filled with fury`, rapt`, inspired',
From the supporting myrtles round',
They snatched her instruments of sound';
And', as they oft had heard apart'
Sweet lessons of her forceful art',
Each' (for madness ruled the hour')
Would prove his own expressive power'.
First', Fear, his hand', its skill to try',
Amid the chords bewildered laid',
And back recoiled', he knew not why',
E'en at the sound himself had made'.
Next', Anger rushed'; his eyes on fire',
In lightnings owned his secret stings';
In one rude clash he struck the lyre',
And swept', with hurried hand', the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair',
Low', sullen sounds his grief beguiled';
A solemn, strange', and mingled air';
'Twas sad by fits', by starts 'twas wild'.
But thou, O Hope', with eyes so fair',
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure',
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail`!
Still would her touch the strain prolong';
And', from the rocks', the woods', the vale',
She called on echo still', through all the song';
And', where her sweetest theme she chose',
A soft', responsive voice was heard at every close";
And Hope enchanted smiled', and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung';-but', with a frown',
Revenge impatient rose':
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down',
And', with a withering look',
The war-denouncing trumpet took',
And blew a blast so loud and dread',
Were ne'er prophetick sounds so full of wo`:
And ever and anon, he beat'
The doubling drum, with furious heat';
And though', sometimes', each dreary pause between',
Dejected Pity', at his side',
Her soul-subduing voice applied',
Yet still he kept his wild', unaltered mien',
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head'.
Thy numbers', Jealousy', to naught were fixed',
Sad proof of thy distressful state':
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed';
And now it courted Love', now', raving', called on Hate'. With eyes upraised', as one inspired',
Pale Melancholy sat retired`;
And from her wild', sequestered seat',
In notes by distance made more sweet',
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul';
And', dashing soft from rocks around',
Bubbling runnels joined the sound`;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole';
Or', o'er some haunted stream', with fond delay',
Round a holy calm diffusing',
Love of peace', and lonely musing',
In hollow murmurs died away'.
But', O'! how altered was its sprightlier tone',
When Cheerfulness', a nymph of healthiest hue',
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew',
Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call`, to faun and dryad known'.
The oak-crowned sisters', and their chaste-eyed queen',
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen',
Peeping from forth their alleys green':
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leaped up', and seized his beechen spear'.
Last came Joy's ecstatick trial':
He', with viny crown advancing',
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed':
But soon he saw the brisk', awakening viol`,
Whose sweet', entrancing voice he loved the best :
They would have thought', who heard the strain',
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids',
Amidst the festal', sounding shades',
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While', as his flying fingers kissed the strings',
Love framed with Mirth', a gay', fantastick round':
Loose were her tresses seen', her zone unbound';
And he', amidst his frolick play',
As if he would the charming air repay',
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
Alexander's Feast; or, The Power of Musick. AN ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.-DRYDEN. 'Twas'.. at the royal feast', for Persia'. . won' By Philip's warlike son:Aloft'. . in awful state',
The godlike hero sat'
On his imperial throne`.
His valiant peers' . . were placed around',
Their brows'.. with roses and with myrtles bound':
So should desert in arms be crowned'.
The lovely Thais'.. by his side'
Sat', like a blooming', eastern bride',
In flower of youth and beauty's pride'
Happy', happy', happy' . . pair` !
None but the brave,
None.. but the brave',
None but' the brave', deserve.. the fair".
Timo-theus'.. placed on high',
Amid the tuneful choir',
With flying fingers touched the lyre':
The trembling notes'. . ascend the sky',
And heavenly joys inspire'.
The song began from Jove",
Who left his blissful seats above';
(Such is the power of mighty love!)
A dragon's fiery form'. . belied the god:
Sublime'. . on radiant spheres he rode',
When he to fair Olympia' . . pressed',
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world The list'ning crowd' . . admire the lofty sound';
A present deity`, they shout around';
A present deity, the vaulted roofs' . . rebound'.
With ravished 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 trumpet'; beat the drums';
Flushed with a purple grace',
He shows his honest face';
Now give the hautboys breath-he comes! he comes` !
Bacchus', ever fair and ever 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 checked 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 welt'ring in his blood":
Deserted at his utmost need'
By those his former bounty fed',
On the bare earth'. . exposed he lies',
With not a friend'. . to close his eyes.
With downcast look'. . the joyless victor sar,
Revolving in his altered soul',
The various turns of fate below`;
And now and then', a sigh he stole',
And ears'.. 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':
|