A general Sigh diffus'd a mournful Sound.
Then fuch deep Sighs heav'd from his woful Heart,
As if his forrowful Soul!
Had crack'd the Strings of Life, and burft away:
He knock'd his aged Breast, and inward groan'd,
Like fome fad Prophet, who forefaw the Doom
Of those whom best he lov'd, and could not save.
All the vital Air that Life draws in,
Is render'd back in Sighs.
Nor Women's Sighs, nor Tears are true,
Those idly blow, thefe idly fall;
Nothing like to ours at all:
But Sighs and Tears have Sexes too.
Keep down, ye rifing Sighs!
And murmur in the Hollow of my Breast;
Run to my Heart, and gather more fad Wind;
That when the Voice of Fate fhall call you forth,
You may at once rush from the Seat of Life,
Blow the Blood out, and burst me like a Bladder.
Silence, the midnight God appears :
In all its downy Pomp array'd,
Behold the rev'rend Shade.
An ancient Sigh he fits upon,
Whofe Memory of Sound is long fince gone,
And purposely annihilated for his Throne.
Beneath two foft tranfparent Clouds do meet,
In which he feems to fink his softer Feet :
A melancholy Thought condens'd to Air,
Stoll'n from a Lover in Difpair,
Like a thin Mantle, ferves to wrap
In fluid Folds his vifionary Shape;
A Wreath of Darkness round his Head he wears,
Where curling Mifts fupplies the want of Hairs.
While the fill Vapours, which from Poppies rife,
Bedew his hoary Head, and lull his Eyes.
Silence, more dreadful than fevereft Sounds!
Would the but fpeak, tho' Death, eternal Exile,
Hung at her Lips, yet while her Tongue pronounces,
There would be Mufick ev'n in my Undoing.
Far from my Lips, within my Breaft I'll keep it,
Nor breathe it foftly to my felf alone,
Left fome officious murm'ring Wind fhould tell it,
And babbling Echoes catch the feeble Sound.
No, to what purpose fhould I fpeak!
No, wretched Heart, fwell till you break!
No, to the Grave thy Sorrows bear,
As filent as they will be there:
I will not ask her, 'tis a milder Fate
To fall by her not loving, than her Hate.
Mean while the Knight had no fmall Task,
To compass what he durft not ask:
He loves, but dares not make the Motion;
Her Ignorance is his Devotion.
Like Caitiff vile, that for Mifdeed,
Rides with his Face to Rump of Steed
Or rowing Skull, he's fain to love,
Look one way, and another move
Or as a Tumbler that does play
His Game, and look another Way,
Until he fieze upon the Coney;
Just so does he by Matrimony.
Silent as the extatick Blifs.
Of Souls, that by Intelligence converfe.
Still as the Bofom of the defart Night,
As fatal Planets, or deep-plotting Friends.
Still as the peaceful Walks of antient Night;
Silent as are the Lamps that burn in Tombs.
Silent as Dews that fall in Dead of Night.
Shak. K. Lear: Dryd. Ind. Emp.
Two Satyrs, on the Ground
Stretch'd at his Eafe, their Sire Silenus found:
Doz'd with his Fumes, and heavy with his Load,
They found him fnoring in his dark Abode;
And fiez'd with youthful Arms the drunken God.
His rofy Wreath was dropt not long before,
Borne by the Tide of Wine, and floating on the Floor.
His empty Can, with Ears half worn away,
Was hung on high, to boaft the Triumph of the Day. Dr. Virg.
SINGING. See Enthufiafm, Mufick.
Behold and liften, while the Fair
Breaks in fweet Sounds the willing Air;
And with her own Breath fans the Fire,
Which her bright Eyes do firft infpire.
What Reafon can that Love controul,
Which more than one Way courts the Soul?
So when a Flash of Lightning falls
On our Abodes, the Danger calls
For humane Aid, which hopes the Flame
To conquer, tho' from Heav'n it came:
But if the Winds with that confpire,
Men fttive not, but deplore the Fire.
She rais'd her Voice fo high, and fung fo clear,
The Fawns came fcudding from the Groves to hear,
And all the bending Foreft lent an Ear.
Atev'ry Clofe fhe made, th'attending Throng
Reply'd, and bore the Burthen of the Song:
So juft, fo fmall, yet in fo fweet a Note,
It feem'd the Mufick melted in the Throat.
She fung, and carol'd out fo clear,
That Men and Angels might rejoyce to hear:
Ev'n wond'ring Philomel forgot to fing,
(and the Leaf
Dryd. The Flower
And learn'd from her to welcome in the Spring. Dr. Pal. & Arc, He rais'd his Voice, and foon a num'rous Throng
Of tripping Satyrs crowded to the Song;
And nodding Forefts to the Numbers danc'd.
And fylvan Fawns and favage Beafts advanc'd,
Not by Hamonian Hills the Thracian Bard,
Nor awful Phabus was on Pindus heard,
With deeper Silence, or with more Regard.
Amphion fung not sweeter to his Herd,
When fummon'd Stones the Theban Turrets rear'd.
Unweary'd he purfues the tuneful Strain,
Till unperceiv'd the Heav'ns with Stars were hung,
And fuddain Night furpriz'd the yet unfinish'd Song. Dryd. Virg.
A Song that would have charm'd th'infernal Gods,
And banish'd Horrour from the dark Abodes.
While I listen to thy Voice,
Chloris! I feel my Life decay;
That powerful Noife
Calls my flitting Soul away.
Oh! fupprefs the magick Sound,
Which deftroys without a Wound.
Peace Chloris! Peace! or finging, die,
That together you and I
To Heav'n may go:
For all we know,
Of what the Bleffed do above,
Is that they fing, and that they love.
Chloe! your felf you fo excel,
While you vouchfafe to breathe my Thought;
That, like a Spirit, with this Spell
Of my own teaching, I am caught.
That Eagles Fate and mine are one,
Who, on the Shaft that made him die,
Efpy'd a Feather of his own,
With which he wont to foar fo high:
Had Echo with fo fweet a Grace
Narciffis loud Complaints return'd,
Not for Reflexion of his Face,
But of his Voice the Boy had burn'd.
[Wall. To a Lady that fung a Song of his compofing.
SIREN.
Thus as a Mariner, that fails along,
With Pleafüre hears th'enticing Siren's Song;
Unable quite his ftrong Defires to bound,
Boldly leaps in, tho' certain to be drown'd.
SLEEP.
Near the Cimmerians, in his dark Abode,
Deep in a Cavern dwells the drowsy God;
Who rules the Night by Vifions with a Nod.
Whofe gloomy Manfion, nor the rifing Sun,
Nor fetting Vifits, nor the lightsom Moon ;
But lazy Vapours round the Region fly,
Perpetual Twilight and a doubtful Sky.
No crowing Cock does there his Wings difplay;
Nor with his horny Bill provoke the Day:
No watchful Dogs, nor the more wakeful Geefe,
Difturb with nightly Noise the facred Peace.
No Beaft of Nature, nor the tame are nigh,
Nor Trees with Tempefts rock'd, nor human Cry:
But fafe Repose without an Air of Breath
Dwells here, and a dumb Quiet next to Death.
An Arm of Lethe with a gentle Flow
Arifing upward from the Rock below,
The Palace moats, and o'er the Pebbles creeps,
And with foft Murmurs calls the coming Sleeps.
Around its Entry nodding Poppies grow,
And all cool Simples that fweet Reft beftow.
Night from the Plants their fleepy Virtue drains,
And paffing fheds it on the filent Plains:
No Door there was th'unguarded Houfe to keep,
Or creaking Hinges turn'd to break his Sleep.
But in the gloomy Court was rais'd a Bed,
Stuff'd with black Plumes, and on an Ebon Steds
Black was the Cov'ring too, where lay the God,
And flept fupine, his Limbs difplay'd abroad:
About his Head fantaftick Visions fly,
Which various Images of Things fupply,
And mock their Forms, the Leaves on Trees not morë;
Nor bearded Ears in Fields, nor Sands upon the Shore.Dryd.Virg.
O facred Rest!
Sweet pleafing Sleep! of all the Powers the best..
O Peace of Mind! Repairer of Decay,
Whole Balms renew the Limbs to Labours of the Day;
Care fhuns thy foft Approach,and fullen flies away. Dryd.Virg.
The weary World's best Med'cine, Sleep!
It fhuts thofe Wounds where injur'd Lovers weep,
And flies Oppreffors to relieve the Opprest.
It loves the Cottage, and from Court abftains;
It fills the Seaman, tho' the Storm be high;
Frees the griev'd Captive in his clofeft Chains;
Stops Want's loud Mouth, and blinds the treach'rous Spy. Dav.
Sleep, that locks up the Senfes from their Care;
The Death of each Day's Life: Tir'd Nature's Bath!
Balm of hurt Minds, great Nature's fecond Course,
Death's Counterfeit.
Chief Nourisher in Life's Feast.
Somnus, the humble God that dwells,
In Cottages and fmoaky Cells;
Hates gilded Roofs, and Beds of Down,
And tho' he fears no Princes Frown,
Flies from the Circle of a Crown.
Nature, alas! why art thou fo
Oblig'd unto thy greatest Foe?
Sleep, that is thy beft Repaft,
Yet of Death it bears a Tafte,
And both are the fame Thing at last.
O Sleep, O gentle Sleep!
Natur's beft Nurfe! how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eye-lids down,
And steep my Senfes in Forgetfulness?
Why rather, Sleep, ly'st thou in fmoaky Cribs,
Upon uneafy Pallads ftretching thee,
And hufh'd with buzzing Night fly'ft to thy Slumber;
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of coftly State,
And lull'd with Sounds of fweetest Melody?
O thou dull God! why ly't thou with the Vile
In loath fome Beds, and leav'ft the kingly Couch?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy Maft,
Seal up the Ship-Boy's Eyes, and rock his Brains,
In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,
And in the Vifitation of the Winds?.
Canft thou, O partial Sleep! give thy Repofe,
To the wet Sea-boy in an Hour fo rude,
And in the calmeft and the ftilleft Night
Deny it to a King?
So fleeps the Sea-boy on the cloudy Maft,
Safe as a drowfy Triton, rock'd' with Storms,
While toffing Princes wake on Beds of Down.
Sleep is a God too proud to wait in Palaces,
And yet fo humble too as not to fcorn
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