XIV. ON THE MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.1 He who in impious times undaunted stood, Which, to preserve them, Heaven confined in thee. 1 Winchester, a staunch royalist, besieged two years in his castle of Basing, died in 1674. SONGS, ODES, AND A MASQUE. - I. THE FAIR STRANGER.1 A SONG. 1 HAPPY and free, securely blest. 2 Till you descending on our plains, 3 Your smiles have more of conquering charms, Their troops we can expel with ease, 4 But in your eyes, oh! there's the spell, This song is a compliment to the Duchess of Portsmouth, Charles's mistress, on her first coming to England. II. ON THE YOUNG STATESMEN. WRITTEN IN 1680. 1 CLARENDON had law and sense, 2 But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory 1, To be repeated like John Dory, 3 Protect us, mighty Providence! What would these madmen have? And without power enslave. 4 Shall free-born men, in humble awe, Submit to servile shame ; Lory. Who from consent and custom draw The same right to be ruled by law, Which kings pretend to reign? 'Laurence Hyde,' afterwards Earl of Rochester, is the person here called 5 The duke shall wield his conquering sword, The king shall pass his honest word, 6 So have I seen a king on chess His (His rooks and knights withdrawn, III. A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,1 1687. 1 FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony When nature underneath a heap And could not heave her head, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony 1St Cecilia's Day: 22d November-birthday of St Cecilia, the patron saint of music-a Roman lady martyred in the third century, said to have been taught music by an angel. Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 2 What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 3 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? The trumpet's loud clangour Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Cries, hark! the foes come; Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat. 5 In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame. |