« AnteriorContinuar »
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure;
Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again:
He chose a mournful muse
great and good,
And welt'ring in his blood :
With downcast look the joyless victor sate,
The mighty master smild to see
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal bis pain,
Gaz'd on the fair
Who caus'd his care, ,
Sigh'd and look’d, and sigh'd again:
Now strike the golden lyre again;
And amaz'd, he stares around.
See the suries arise,
How they hiss in the air,
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
And unbury'd remain,
To the valiant crew:
Thaïs led the way,
To light bim to his prey,
Thus, long ago
And sounding lyre Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire,
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inveutress of the vocal frame;
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
“Ah, why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortane retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass awayFull quickly they pass - but they never return.
“Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The Moon half-extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again.-But Man's faded glory no change shall renew, Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
" 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. Nor yet for the savage of Winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn! O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"