ELEONORA. HESE virtues raised her fabric to the sky; THI For that which is next heaven is charity. As to the nether heavens they drive the root: She was not humble, but humility. Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair, Or wise, beyond what other women are, Or, which is better, knew, but never durst compare. For, to be conscious of what all admire And not be vain, advances virtue higher. But still she found, or rather thought she found, Of speculation to disputing schools, And teach us equally the scales to hold And we be warmed, but not be scorched by zeal. Yet still she prayed, for still she prayed by deeds. From hours of prayer, for hours of charity. Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love: (For such vicissitudes in heaven there are) All this she practised here; that when she sprung As one returning, not as one arrived. As precious gums are not for lasting fire, She passed serenely with a single breath; This moment perfect health, the next was death. So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue; Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new; We think ourselves awake, and are asleep: So softly death succeeded life in her : She did but dream of heaven, and she was there. A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY 1687. ROM harmony, from heavenly harmony, When Nature underneath a heap 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, And music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 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? His list'ning brethren stood around, 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! 'tis too late to retreat.' The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Their 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 Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; Grand Chorus. As from the power of sacred lays, So when the last and dreadful hour JOSEPH ADDISON. Born 1672. Died 1719. THE BLESSINGS OF LIBERTY. LIBERTY, thou goddess heavenly bright, Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. Others with tow'ring piles may please the sight And in their proud aspiring domes delight: |