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Before him, such as in their souls infix'd

Plagues. They astonish'd, all resistance lost,
All courage; down their idle weapons dropp'd:
O'er shields, and helms, and helmed heads he rode,
Of thrones, and mighty seraphim prostrate,
That wish'd the mountains, now, might be again
Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire.
Nor less on either side, tempestuous fell
His arrows, from the fourfold visag'd four
Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels
Distinct alike with multitude of eyes:
One spirit in them rul'd; and every eye
Glar'd lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire
Among th' accurs'd, that wither'd all their strength,
And of their wonted vigour, left them drain'd,
Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fall'n.

Yet half his strength he put not forth; but check,d
His thunder in mid volley; for he meant
Not to destroy but to root them out of heaven.
The overthrown he rais'd; and as a herd
Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd
Drove them before him thunderstruck pursu'd
With terrors and with furies to the bounds
And chrystal wall of heaven; which opening wide
Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclos'd
Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight
Struck them with horrour backward; but far worse
Urg'd them behind. Headlong themselves they threw
Down from the verge of heaven; eternal wrath
Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.

IX.-Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music.-An Ode for St. Cecilia's Day.-DRYDEN.

'TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son.

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sat

On his imperial throne.

His valient peers were plac'd around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound;
So should desert in arms be crown'd.

The lovely Thais by his side,

Sat 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, deserve the fair.
Timotheous plac'd on high,
Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touch'd 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 bely'd the god;
Sublime on radient spheres he rode,
When he to fair Clympia press'd,


And Stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the The list ning crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity, they shout around;

A present deity; the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravish'd 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 and ever young.

The jolly god in triumph comes!

Sound the trumpet; beat the drums;
Flush'd 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.

Sooth'd 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

The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he heaven and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,

Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius, great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,
Fall'n, from his high estate,
And weit'ring in his blood:
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast look the joyless victor sat, Revolving, in his alter'd soul,

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

The mighty master smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree;
"Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures,
War he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour 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, The many rend the skies with loud applause, So love was crown'd; but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gaz'd on the fair,

Who caus'd his care;

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd
The vanquish'd victor-sunk upon her breast.

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 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,
How they hiss in their hair,

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, unbury'd, 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 seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy:
Thais led the way,

To light him to his pray;

And, like another Helen-fir'd 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, Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown:

He rais'd a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.






I.-On Truth and Integrity.-TILLOTSON.

TRUTH and integrity have all the advantages of appearance, and many more. If the show of any thing be good for any thing, I am sure the reality is better; for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have the qualities he pretends to? For, to counterfeit and dissemble, is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. Now, the best way for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to be what he would seem to be. Besides, it is often as troublesome to support the pretence of a good quality, as to have it; and if a man have it not, it is most likely he will be discovered to want it; and then all his labour to seem to have it, is lost. There a something unnatural in painting, which a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty and complexion.

It is hard to personate and act a part long; for where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to return, and will betray herself at one time or other. Therefore, if any man think it convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed; and then his goodness will ap pear to every one's satisfaction; for truth is convincing, and carries its own light and evidence along with it; and, will not only commend us to every man's conscience; but, which is much more, to God, who searcheth our hearts: so that, upon all accounts, sincerity is true wisdom. Par ticularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath may advantages over all the artificial modes of dissimula

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