He the same play by land has shown, As Tourville did upon the main. Yet is the marshal made a peer! O William, may thy arms advance, That he may lose Dinant next year, And so be constable of France. ON MRS. ARABELLA HUNT, SINGING. CONGREVE. Written about 1701. First printed, in the 3rd vol. of the Works, in 1710. L I. ET all be hush'd, each softest motion cease, Be ev'ry loud tumultuous thought at peace, And ev'ry ruder gasp of breath Be calm, as in the arms of death: And thou, most fickle, most uneasy part, Be still; gently, ah! gently, leave, Stir not a pulse; and let my blood, Be softly staid : Let me be all, but my attention, dead. Leave your officious toil and strife; For I would hear her voice, and try If it be possible to die. II. Come, all ye love-sick maids and wounded swains, A wondrous balm between her lips she wears, And this thro' ev'ry ear she can impart, (By tuneful breath diffus'd) to ev'ry heart. And to the tender grief soft air applies, Cements the bleeding panter's wounds. Your very tend❜rest moving sighs forbear, III. And, lo! silence himself is here; Methinks I see the midnight God appear : Behold the rev'rend shade; An ancient sigh he sits upon, Whose memory of sound is long since gone, H Beneath two soft transparent clouds do meet, A melancholy thought, condens'd to air, Like a thin mantle serves to wrap In fluid folds his visionary shape; A wreath of darkness round his head he wears, Where curling mists supply the want of hairs; While the still vapours, which from poppies rise, Bedew his hoary face and lull his eyes. IV. But, hark! the heav'nly sphere turns round, In ecstasy of sound. How on a sudden the still air is charm'd, As if all harmony were just alarm'd! And ev'ry soul, with transport fill'd, Come flocking to admire, And with what speed and care Descending angels cut the thinnest air! Haste then, come all th' immortal throng, And listen to her song; Leave your lov'd mansions in the sky, And hither, quickly hither, fly; Your loss of heav'n nor shall you need to fear; V. See how they crowd, see how the little cherubs skip ! While others sit around her mouth, and sip Sweet hallelujahs from her lip; Those lips where in surprise of bliss they rove; For ne'er before did angels taste So exquisite a feast Of music and of love. Prepare, then, ye immortal choir! And with her voice in chorus join, Her voice which, next to yours, is most divine; And to that pitch th' eternal accents raise, Which only breath inspir'd can reach, To notes which only she can learn and you can teach ; While we, charm'd with the lov'd excess, Are wrapt in sweet forgetfulness Of all, of all, but of the present happiness, For ever to be dying so, yet never die. |