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,

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.

CHORUS.

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 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 spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed;
And while he sought her snowy breast;

Then round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped 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 ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

CHORUS.

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 trumpets; 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 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.

CHORUS.

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 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 altered soul

The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole;
And tears began to flow.

CHORUS.

Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole; And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled, to see
That love was in the next degree;
'T was 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;
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 Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.

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 gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy;
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy!

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 unknown

before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies.
She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS.

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 unknown

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, -
Possest beyond the muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 't is 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 cords 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;
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delightful 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 thunderdown;
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe !

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 sate 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 meas

ure stole;

Oro'ersome haunted stream, with fond delay,
Round an 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 inspiringair, 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 leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
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 fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page ;
'T is said and I believe the tale
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
E'en all at once together found, -
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
O, bid our vain endeavors cease ;
Revive the just designs of Greece !
Return in all thy simple state,
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

WILLIAM COLLINS

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 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 fell
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,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms,

The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
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,

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
How passing wonder He who made him such !
Who centred in our make such strange extremes,
From different natures marvellously mixed,
Connection exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguished link in being's endless chain !
Midway from nothing to the Deity !
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!
A worm! a God! - I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast,
And wondering at her own. How reason reels!

O, what a miracle to man is man!
Triumphantly distressed! What joy! what dread!
Alternately transported and alarmed!
What can preserve my life? or what destroy ?

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.

But O, 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,

Legions of angels can't confine me there.

DR. EDWARD YOUNG.

MAN-WOMAN.

Man's home is everywhere. On ocean's flood,
Where the strong ship with storm-defying tether
Doth link in stormy brotherhood
Earth's utmost zones together,

Where'er the red gold glows, the spice-trees wave,
Where the rich diamond ripens, mid the flame
Of vertic suns that ope the stranger's grave,
He with bronzed cheek and daring step doth
rove;

He with short pang and slight
Doth turn him from the checkered light
Of the fair moon through his own forests dancing,
Where music, joy, and love

Were his young hours entrancing;
And where ambition's thunder-claim

Points out his lot,

Or fitful wealth allures to roam,

There doth he make his home,
Repining not.

But, lovely child! thy magic stole
At once into my inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown;
Glad would they be their child to own!
And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And seeing thee I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home wouldst live,
Though in thy face no family-line
Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine"!
In time thou wouldst become the same
As their own child, all but the name!

JOHN WILSON.

MAN-WOMAN.

FROM "DON JUAN."

MOTHER AND CHILD.

"MAN's love is of man's life a thing apart;

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange:
Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone."

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

BYRON.

ART thou a thing of mortal birth
Whose happy home is on our earth ?
Does human blood with life imbue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost mid a gleam of golden hair?
O, can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doomed to death?
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent ?
Or art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blesséd dream ?
A human shape I feel thou art
I feel it at my beating heart,
Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence !
Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love;
Thoughts from the living world intrude
Even on our deepest solitude;

Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,
Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh: -
And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,
A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,
Looked archly on its world, the little imp,
As if it knew even then that such a wreath
Were not for all; and with its playful hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,
And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears
Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek,
Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy;
And the true heart of that young mother then
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet
Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep
To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

FORTUNE.

FRAGMENT FROM "FANNY."

BUT Fortune, like some others of her sex, Delights in tantalizing and tormenting.