Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,
And dormitory too..
Above the steeple shines a plate
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather;
Look up your brains begin to swim-
'Tis in the clouds-that pleases him;
He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree show
That occupy mankind below,
Secure, and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall :
No, not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate

Or troubles it at all. <
He sees that this great round-about,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses
Are no concerns at all of his,

And says-what says he?-Caw... Thrice happy bird! I, too, have seen Much of the vanities of men,

And sick of having seen them, * Would cheerfuly these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine,

And-such a head between them.

COWPER.

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51. Invocation to Music..

MEDITATIVE MANNER:

Enthusiasm, Plaintive expression, Vehemence, Solemnity,

5 Gentleness and Delight rising into Vehemence, Exultation,

* Diminution of force relaxing into o Softness.

1 Descend, ye Nine, descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire,

Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre.

2 In a sadly pleasing strain

Let the warbling lute complain :

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3

* Let the loud trumpet sound
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:

* While in more lengthened notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.

* Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear,

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Now louder and yet louder rise,

And, fill, with spreading sounds, the skies:

'Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, * In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away

In a dying, dying fall.

POPE.

52. Beauty illumined by Soul.

NARRATIVE MANNER:

Weariness and Distaste, Delight, Distaste, Delight, Delight expressed with gentleness and affection, Suddenness of emotion, *Narrative manner, with some archness in the ensuing line, * Delight, Delight mingled with Melancholy, 10 Delight expressed with gaiety and rapture.

There's a beauty for ever1 unchangingly bright, Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's

light,

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender:

* That was not her beauty-that sameness of splendour,

* But the loveliness ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there giving warmth, as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to

the eyes.

When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her

face;

* And when angry, -' for e'en in the tranquillest climes

Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes* The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when

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shaken.

* If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re

vealings

From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings.

10 Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing

From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring,

While her laugh, full of life, without any con

In lip, cheek, or eyes; for she brightened all

over,

Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the 53. Jephtha's Daughter to her Father.

VEHEMENT EXPRESSION:

Enthusiastic Firmness; relaxes into the Plaintive manner; 3 Affectionate Warmth rising again into Enthusiastic Firmness, but relaxing into the Plaintive, again rises into Firmness and * Exultation; & Affectionate tenderness.

Since our country, our God, O my sire,
Demand that thy daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow;
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now,

2 And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more.

3

* If the hand that I love lay me low,

There cannot be pain in the blow,-
* And of this, O my father, be sure,
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,

* And the last thought that sooths me below.

Though the virgins of Salem lament,

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Be the judge and the hero unbent;

"I have won the great battle for thee,

And my father and country are free.

* When this blood of thy giving hath gushed,
When the voice that thou lovest is hushed,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died.

LORD BYRON.