A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone: His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle: His sword was in his sheath, Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that Britain owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone: His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. Cowper. TWA ALEXANDER'S FEAST. WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won, Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sat On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were plac'd around; Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound: The lovely Thais by his side Sat like a blooming Eastern bride, None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The song began from Jove; Who left his blissful seats above, When he to fair Olympia press'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world, The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound; Assumes the god, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; He shews his honest face, Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain : Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain; And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise; Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good, And welt'ring in his blood; The various turns of fate below; The mighty master smil'd, to see 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 caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, Now strike the golden lyre again; And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Has raised up his head, As awaked 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 the air, 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, Inglorious on the plain; Behold how they toss their torches on high, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, Timotheus to his breathing flute Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down. Dryden. |