And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world. 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 ever young;

The jolly god in triumph comes;

Sound the trumpets, 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 slain.

The master saw the madness rise;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes:
And while he heav'n and earth defied,

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 welt'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 altered 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,

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 unburied 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 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,
Enlarged 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.

38.-LUCY GRAY.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[See p. 134.]

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew,
She dwelt on a wild moor-
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green,

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-
You to the town must go;

And take the lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, will I gladly do!
'Tis scarcely afternoon-

The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook
And snapp'd a fagot band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time;
She wander'd up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the moor,

And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.

And turning homeward, now they cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet !"

When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the footmarks small,
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall.

And then an open field they cross'd,
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.

2

They follow'd from the snowy bank,
The footmarks one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,

And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind,

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

39.-STRIFE AND PEACE.

JEAN INGELOW.

[See page 156.]

THE yellow poplar leaves came down
And like a carpet lay,

No waftings were in the sunny air
To flutter them away;

And he stepped on blithe and debonair

That warm October day.

"The boy," saith he, "hath got his own, But sore has been the fight,

For ere his life began the strife

That ceased but yesternight;

For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read,
And read it not aright.

"His cause was argued in the court
Before his christening day,

And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, And bitter waxed the fray;

Brother with brother spake no word

When they met in the way.

"Against each one did each contend,
And all against the heir.

I would not bend, for I knew the end-
I have it for my share,

And nought repent, though my first friend
From henceforth I must spare.

"Manor and moor and farm and wold Their greed begrudged him sore,