And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world. The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound. A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. The monarch hears, 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: He shows his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath. He comes, he comes! Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes: He sung Darius great and good, Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, With downcast look the joyless victor sat, The various turns of fate below; And now and then a sigh he stole; The mighty master smil'd, to see Take the good the gods provide thee. Gaz'd on the fair, Who caus'd 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; Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Has rais'd up his head; As awak'd from the dead, And amaz'd, he stares around. See the snakes that they rear, Each a torch in his hand! These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 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 learn'd to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. Inventress of the vocal frame; And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before, Let old Timotheus yield the prize, He rais'd a mortal to the skies; BACK FROM THE HOLIDAYS. GEORGE BENNETT. "To meet at the station, boys, 10.15 train.", No blinking or sighing, 'tis girlish and weak, Now, my boys, cut it short, not so many "Good-byes;" I have come up alone, for I knew there was one All in, and all right, and away now we glide, Never grieve for true friends, for from them we ne'er part, And wherever we go they are nearest the heart, To solace, to urge, and inspire. Back from the holidays: who would revolt? Why, you've borne a month's petting, and that's quite enough, Of the rich things of life you have had quantum suff., So hush! or we'll cut you at once, Back from the holidays, face it, my boys; On, onward, by hamlet, and city, and town; As swift as the wild northern blast! Now "God save the Queen." Ah, that's the right song To keep the steam up as we hasten along: There,-don't be too nice with your parts, That's the spirit, my boys, for our Royal mamma, Now three for the Prince, with the handsome young We wish them much joy, tho' we hope they'll not reign Till many more years they have told. Back from the holidays, back, back to work, There's not one of our form that his duties would shirk, We're in to do something this half: The age is competitive-nothing for sham So we'll never depend upon "coaching" and "cram," Or seek either crutches or staff. But now our speed slackens, slower still, and more slow, Ah! yond's the old town, with the mansion we know, Where all may improve who've the nous, |