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My thoughtless youth was winged with

vain desires; My manhood, long misled by wandering

fires, Followed false lights; and when their

glimpse was gone, My pride struck out new sparkles of her

Themselves they could not cure of the

dishonest sore. “Thus one, thus pure, behold her

largely spread, Like the fair ocean from her mother-bed; From east to west triumphantly she rides, All shores are watered by her wealthy

tides. The gospel-sound, diffused from pole to

pole, Where winds can carry and where waves

can roll, The self-same doctrine of the sacred page Conveyed to every clime, in every age.

own.

Such was I, such by nature still I am; Be Thine the glory and be mine the

shame!

THE UNITY OF THE CATHOLIC

CHURCH. [From The Hind and the Panther, Part II.] “ONE in herself, not rent by schism,

but sound, Entire, one solid shining diamond, Not sparkles shattered into sects like

you: One is the Church, and must be to be

true, One central principle of unity; As undivided, so from errors free; •As one in faith, so one in sanctity. Thus she, and none but she, the insult

ing rage Of heretics opposed from age to age; Still when the giant-brood invades her

throne, She stoops from heaven and meets

them half way down, And with paternal thunder vindicates

her crown. But like Egyptian sorcerers you stand, And vainly lift aloft your magic wand To sweep away the swarms of vermin

from the land. You could like them, with like infernal

force, Produce the plague, but not arrest the

course. But when the boils and botches with

disgrace And public scandal sat upon the face, Themselves attacked, the Magi strove

no more, They saw God's finger, and their fate

deplore,

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S

DAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1687. From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began;
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead. Then cold and hot and moist and dry In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began :

From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it

ran, The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and

quell? When Jubal struck the chorded

shell, His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces feli
To worship that celestial sound:
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

Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sale

On his imperial throne :
His valiant peers were placed

around; Their brows with roses and with myrtle

bound, (So should desert in arms be

crown'd):
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate, 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 deserves the fair.

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat

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 whispered by the warb

ling 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,
What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise ?

Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder

higher : When to her organ vocal breath was

given, An angel heard, and straight appeared, Mistaking earth for heaven.

· Grand Chorus.
As
from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the blessed above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touch'd 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 press’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;

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE

POWER OF MUSIC. AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA's

DAY, 1697. 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son:

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain.

The many rend the skies with loud ap

plause; So love was crown'd, but music won the

cause.

oppressid,

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 exposed 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 be

low; And now and then a sigh he stole,

And tears began to flow.

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
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

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 pleas-

gods!

ures.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor, 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 Thaïs sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide

thee!

The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau with

zeal to destroy ;

Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fired another
Troy.

Thus, long ago,
Er: heaving bellows learn'd to blow,

And from the dregs of life think to re

ceive What the first sprightly running could

not give.

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 un

known before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.

VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS.1

MANKIND. [From All for Love, Act IV.] MEN are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain; And yet the soul shut up in her dark

room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees

nothing; But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it out

ward To the world's open view.

CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come, visit every pious mind;
Come, pour Thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make Thy temples worthy Thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in Thy sevenfold energy!
Thou strength of His Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth

command;
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st Thy gifts with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts:
But oh, inflame and fire our hearts !
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay Thine hand, and hold them

down.

HUMAN LIFE.

[From Aureng Zebe, Act IV.] WHEN I consider life, 'tis all a cheat; Yet, fool'd with hope, men favor the

deceit; Trust on, and think to-morrow will re

pay : To-morrow's falser than the former day; Lies worse; and while it says we shall

be blest With some new joys, cuts off what we

possessed. Strange cozenage! None would live

past years again; Yet all hope pleasure in what yet re

main;

Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us Thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by Thee.

1 This paraphrase of the Latin hymn, popularly attributed to Charlemagne, was first printed in Tonson's folio edition of Dryden's Poems, 1701.

Immortal honor, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name !
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died !
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee!

FREEDOM OF THE SAVAGE. (From The Conquest of Granada, Part I.] No man has more contempt than I of

breath, But whence hast thou the right to give

me death? I am as free as Nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage

their ears,

ran.

UNDER MILTON'S PICTURE. THREE Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first, in loftiness of thought sur

pass’d; The next, in majesty; in both, the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third, she join'd the former

two.

And made almost a sin of abstinence. Yet, had his aspect nothing of severe, But such a face as promis’d him sincere, Nothing reserved or sullen was to see: But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity: Mild was his accent, and his action free. With eloquence innate his tongue was

arm’d; Though harsh the precept, yet the people

charm'd. For, letting down the golden chain from

high, He drew his audience upward to the

sky: And oft with holy hymns he charm’d (A music more melodious than the

spheres :) For David left him, when he went to rest, His lyre; and after him he sung the best. He bore his great commission in his

look: But sweetly tempered awe; and soften'd

all he spoke. He preach'd the joys of heaven, and

pains of hell, And warn’d the sinner with becoming

zeal; But, on eternal mercy loved to dwell. He taught the gospel rather than the

law; And forced himself to drive; but loved

to draw. For fear but freezes minds : but love,

like heat, Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her

native seat. To threats the stubborn sinner oft is

hard, Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm

prepared; But, when the milder beams of mercy

play, He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak

away. Lightning and thunder (heaven's ar.

tillery) As harbingers before th' Almighty fly: Those but proclaim his style, and dis

appear; The stiller sounds succeed, and God is

there.

THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD

PARSON. A PARISH priest was of the pilgrim train; An awful, reverend, and religious man. His eyes diffused a venerable grace, And charity itself was in his face. Rich was his soul, though his attire was

poor (As God hath clothed his own ambas

sador); For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer

bore. Of sixty years he seem'd; and well might

last To sixty more, but that he lived too fast; Kefined himself to soul, to curb the

sense;

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