'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); The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair! 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! Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Soothed 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; And while he heaven and earth defied Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of Chance below The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sang, is toil and trouble, Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again: At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Break his bands of sleep asunder And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned 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. Dryden. |