Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. With whate'er gall thou setst itself to write, 200 Thy inoffensive satires never bite;

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.

205 Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command, Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.

There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways; Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, 210 Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute." He said: but his last words were scarcely

heard;

For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepared,
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
215 Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part;
With double portion of his father's art.

150

ACHITOPHEL

(From Absalom and Achitophel, 1681)

Of these the false Achitophel was first;
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs, and crooked counsels fit;
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;

Restless, unfixed in principles and place;
155 In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy-body to decay,

And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity,

160 Pleased with the danger, when the waves went

high,

He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit,

Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,

And thin partitions do their bounds divide;

165 Else, why should he, with wealth and honour blest,

Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please;
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?

And all to leave what with his toil he won,
170 To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;
Got, while his soul did huddled notions try;
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.
In friendship false, implacable in hate;
Resolved to ruin, or to rule the state.
175 To compass this the triple bond he broke;
The pillars of the public safety shook;
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke;

Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame,
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.

180 So easy still it proves in factious times,
With public zeal to cancel private crimes.
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,

Where none can sin against the people's will, Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, 185 Since in another's guilt they find their own? Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge;

The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abbethdin With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean, 190 Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; Swift of despatch, and easy of access. Oh! had he been content to serve the crown, With virtue only proper to the gown;

Or had the rankness of the soil been freed 195 From cockle, that oppressed the noble seed; David for him his tuneful harp had strung,

And heaven had wanted one immortal song.
But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand,
And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land.
Achitophel, grown weary to possess

A lawful fame, and lazy happiness,

Disdained the golden fruit to gather free,
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree.

200

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 22ND NOVEMBER,

1687

I.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:

When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,
"Arise, ye more than dead."

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began;

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

15

II.

What passion cannot music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound:

20

25

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot music raise and quell?

III.

The trumpet's loud clangour

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,
Cries, hark! the foes come:

Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat.

IV.

The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers;

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

V.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,

40

For the fair, disdainful dame.

VI.

But, oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,

45

Notes that wend their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

VII.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;

When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared, Mistaking earth for heaven.

GRAND CHORUS

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres begin to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

50

55

60

ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR THE POWER OF MUSIC; AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1697

I.

"Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft, in awful state,

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne.

His valiant peers were placed around;

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crowned.)

5

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sate like a blooming eastern bride,

10

In flower of youth and beauty's pride.