Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 72

But O, what art can teach, What human voice can reach, The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race; And trees unrooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher: When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appear'd Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the Blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky!

John Dryden. 1631-1700

400. Ah, how sweet it is to love!

AH, how sweet it is to love!

Ah, how gay is young Desire!

And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire!

Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart: Ev'n the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart: Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again: If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

401. Hidden Flame

I FEED a flame within, which so torments me That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die than once remove it.

Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it; My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.

Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses, But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel, My heart 's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel; And while I suffer this to give him quiet, My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me; While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.

To be more happy I dare not aspire, Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

John Dryden. 1631-1700

402. Song to a Fair Young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring

ASK not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure?

Great G.o.d of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land?

Where thou hadst plac'd such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall.

I only am by Love design'd To be the victim for mankind.

Charles Webbe. c. 1678

403. Against Indifference

MORE love or more disdain I crave; Sweet, be not still indifferent: O send me quickly to my grave, Or else afford me more content!

Or love or hate me more or less, For love abhors all lukewarmness.

Give me a tempest if 'twill drive Me to the place where I would be; Or if you'll have me still alive, Confess you will be kind to me.

Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave: More love or more disdain I crave.

Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691

404. Song

LADIES, though to your conquering eyes Love owes his chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue, Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love.

Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest Love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair: The Boy did not his Mother spare.

Beauty 's but an offensive dart: It is no armour for the heart.

Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691

405. To a Lady asking him how long he would love her

IT is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste; The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.

Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past: Were it not madness to deny To live because we're sure to die?

Thomas Traherne. 1637?-1674

406. News

NEWS from a foreign country came As if my treasure and my wealth lay there; So much it did my heart inflame, 'Twas wont to call my Soul into mine ear; Which thither went to meet The approaching sweet, And on the threshold stood To entertain the unknown Good.

It hover'd there As if 'twould leave mine ear, And was so eager to embrace The joyful tidings as they came, 'Twould almost leave its dwelling-place To entertain that same.

As if the tidings were the things, My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure-- Or else did bear them on their wings-- With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure.

My Soul stood at that gate To recreate Itself with bliss, and to Be pleased with speed. A fuller view It fain would take, Yet journeys back would make Unto my heart; as if 'twould fain Go out to meet, yet stay within To fit a place to entertain And bring the tidings in.

What sacred instinct did inspire My soul in childhood with a hope so strong?

What secret force moved my desire To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young?

Felicity I knew Was out of view, And being here alone, I saw that happiness was gone From me! For this I thirsted absent bliss, And thought that sure beyond the seas, Or else in something near at hand-- I knew not yet--since naught did please I knew--my Bliss did stand.