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The story told, Sir Topaz mov’d,
The youth of Edith’erst approv’d,
To see the revel scene;
At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome
All on the gloomy plain.
As there he bides, it so befel,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seiz'd the wall:
Up sprung the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.
But certes, solely sunk with woe, Sir Topaz sees the Elphin show, - His spirits in him dye; When Oberon crys, “A man is near, A mortal passion, cleeped fear, Hangs flagging in the sky.”
With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents salt'ring, ay for ruth,
Intreats them pity graunt;
“For als he been a mister wight
Betray'd by wand'ring in the night
To tread the circled haunt.”
“Ah Losell vile!” at once they roar;
“And little skill'd of fairie lore,
Thy cause to come, we know :
Now has thy kestrell courage fell;
And fairies, since a lye you tell,
Are free to work thee woe.”
Then Will, who bears the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,
The captive upward flung;
There like a tortoise in a shop
He dangled from the chamber-top.
Where whilome Edwin hung.
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,
They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while
*Till all the rout retreat.
By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down ydrops the knight;
For never spell by fairie laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade
Beyond the length of night.
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
*Till up the welkin rose the day,
Then deem'd the dole was o'er:
But wot ye well his harder lot?
His seely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin lost afore.
This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;
She softly stroak'd my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
“Thus some are born, iny son,” she cries,
With base impediments to rise,
And some are born with none.
“But virtue can itself advance
To what the fav'rite fools of chance
By fortune seem'd design'd:
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind.”
"Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won,
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hero sate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms be crown'd.
The lovely Thaïs by his side
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride,
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave, ,
None but the brave deserve the fair.
Timotheus plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heav'nly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
Such is the pow'r of mighty love!
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the
The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound;
A present deity, they shout around:
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd cars
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: