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The master saw the madness rise;
He sung Darius, great and good,
Fall'n fall'n! fall'n fall'n!
With downcast look the joyless victor sat,
The various turns of fate below;
The mighty master smil'd, to see
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning,
The many rend the skies with loud applause: So love was crown'd; but music won the cause.
Now, strike the golden lyre again!
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder!
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead; And amaz'd he stares around.
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries—
See the furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
These 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,
And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods!
The princes applaud with a furious joy;
And the king seiz'd 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 learn'd to blow,
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,
Enlarg❜d the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.
Or both divide the crown:
She drew an angel down!
XVI.-EXTRACTS FROM GRAY'S BARD.
RUIN seize thee, ruthless! King!
Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,
Nor even thy virtues, tyrant! shall avail
Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance:
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air;)
It was a common tradition in Wales, that Edward I. ordered all the Bards to be put to death. On that tradition this Ode is founded.
And with a master's hand and prophet's fire
No more I weep. They do not sleep;
I see them sit! they linger yet,
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hand the tissue of thy line.
"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Mark the year, and mark the night,
The shrieks of death through Berkley's roof that ring;
Mighty victor, mighty lord,
Is the sable warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born?
Fair laughs the morn,3 and soft the zephyr blows,
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ;
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey'—
1 In allusion to the murder of Edward II. Death of Edward III. 8 In allusion to the auspicious commencement of Richard II.'s reign.
'Fond impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day ? To-morrow he repairs. the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
The different doom our fates assign,
He spoke; and, headlong from the mountain's height,
XVII. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness-and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,