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A target there, a bugle here,
A battle-axe, a hunting spear,
And broadswords, bows, and arrows store,
With the tusk'd trophies of the boar.
Here grins the wolf as when he died,
And there the wild-cat's brindled hide
The frontlet of the elk adorns,
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns ;
Pennons and flags, defaced and stain'd,
That blackening streaks of blood retain'd,
And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white,
With otter's fur and seal's unite,
In rude and uncouth tapestry all,
To garnish forth the sylvan hall.
“ Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking : Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
“No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steeds' neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.
“Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying ;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.”
’T was 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 placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms be crowned.
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sat 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.
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.-
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seat above-
Such is the power of mighty love! —
* * * * * *
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
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 look the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul
The various turns of fate below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled, to see
That love was in the next degree:
’T was 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 sung, 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, oh 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!
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head,
As awakened from the dead;
And, amazed, he stares around.
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries —
See the furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
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 glittering temples of their hostile gods ! The princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey !
And, like an other Helen, fired another Troy!