Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,

Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant, that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt Thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.-Milton.

XCVII.

TO MR. LAWRENCE.

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won

From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.-Milton.

182

Charles 33.

CXCVIII.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE
POWER OF MUSIC.

'TWAS at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son-

Aloft, in awful state

The Godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne;

His valiant peers were placed around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles 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!

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

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 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,