Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries:
See the furies arise!

See the snakes how they rear,

How they hiss in the air!

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand,

These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

And unburied remain,
Inglorious on the plain:

Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods!The princes applaud with a furious joy,

And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with aeal to destroy: Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fir'd 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. At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

'He rais'd a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.

ODE

To the picus Memory of the accomplished young Lady, Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW,

Excellent in the two Sister-Arts of Poesy and Painting.

THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the Skies,
Made in the last promotion of the bless'd;
'Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race,
Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
Mov'd with the heavn's majestic pace;
Or, call'd to more superior bliss,

Thou tread'st with seraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse
In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of poesy were giv'n
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of Heav'n.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein,
But if thy pre-existing soul

Was form'd, at first with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll,
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heav'n-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore; Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

May we presume to say, that at thy birth,

New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth?

For sure the milder planets did combine

On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And e'en the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth

Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the people of the sky

Might know a poetess was born on earth;

And then, if ever, mortal ears

Had heard the music of the spheres.

And if no clustering swarm of bees

On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leisure to renew :
For all thy bless'd fraternity of love
Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day
above.

O gracious God! how far have we
Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age,

(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own)

To' increase the streaming ordures of the stage!
What can we say to' excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd,
Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child..

Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For Nature did that want supply;
So rich in treasures of her own,

She might our boasted stores defy :

Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,

That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,

By great examples daily fed,

What in the best of books, her father's life, she read.

And to be read herself she need not fear;

Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus, with his lamp, were there.
E'en love, for love sometimes her Muse exprest
Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her
breast,

Light as the vapours of a morning-dream;

So cold herself, while she such warmth express'd, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought she should have been

content

To manage well that mighty government;

But what can young ambitious souls confine?
To the next realm she stretch'd her sway,
For Painture near adjoining lay,

A plenteous province, and alluring prey.
A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd,
(As conquerors will never want pretence,
When arm'd, to justify the' offence)

And the old fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd.
The country open lay without defence;

For poets frequent inroads there had made,

And perfectly could represent

The shape, the face, with every lineament,

And all the large domains which the dumb sister

sway'd;

All bow'd beneath her government,

Receiv'd in triumph wheresoe'er she went.

Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd,
And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in

her mind,

The silvan scenes of herds and flocks,
And fruitful plains, and barren rocks,
Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear,
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too, and ampler floods,
Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods;
Of lofty trees, with sacred shades,
And perspectives of pleasant glades,
Where nymphs of brightest form appear,
And shaggy Satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.

The ruins, too, of some majestic piece,
Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,
And, though defac'd, the wonder of the eye;
What Nature, Art, bold Fiction, e'er durst frame,
Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peopled Ark the whole creation bore.

}

The scene then chang'd, with bold erected look
Our martial King the sight with reverence strook:
For, not content to' express his outward part,
Her hand call'd out the image of his heart:
His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
His high-designing thoughts were figur'd there,
As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
Our phoenix Queen was pourtray'd, too, so bright,
Beauty alone could beauty take so right:
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observ'd, as well as heavenly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands,

As, in that day she took the crown from sacred hands,
Before a train of heroines was seen

In beauty foremost, as in rank, the Queen.