FROM PHILASTER. I FOUND him sitting by a fountain-side, Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, BEAUMONT and FLETCHER. WHY THUS LONGING? WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing, All thy restless yearnings it would still; Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, HARRIET WINSLOW. 'TIS SWEET. FROM DON JUAN. 'Tis sweet to hear, At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep; 'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth; Sweet is revenge, especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the school-boy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. The frolic wind that breathes the spring, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, To live with her, and live with thee, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains, on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest, Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail ; Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, Where throngs of knights and barons bold Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. And ever, against eating cares, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, That Orpheus' self may heave his head Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. JOHN MILTON. Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. 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. Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre; The song began from Jove, When he to fair Olympia pressed; The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. With ravished ears The monarch hears, 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: 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, Sweet the pleasure, 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; Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius, great and good; By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, And weltering in his blood; 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 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. And the sparkles that flash from their Behold a ghastly band, eyes ! Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain, 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 ! CHORUS. 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! Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute, THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire, |