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Books should, not business, entertain
LIBERTY. the light, And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the WHERE honor or where conscience does night.
not bind, My house a cottage more
No other law shall shackle me; Than palace ; and should fitting be Slave to myself I will not be : For all my use, no luxury.
Nor shall my future actions be confined My garden painted o'er
By my own present mind. With Nature's hand, not Art's; and Who by resolves and vows engaged does pleasures yield,
stand Horace might envy in his Sabine field. For days that yet belong to Fate,
Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his Thus would I double my life's fading space;
Before it falls into his hand. For he that runs it well twice runs his The bondman of the cloister so
All that he does receive does always owe; And in this true delight,
And still as time comes in, it goes away, These unbought sports, this happy state,' Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. I would not fear, nor wish, my fate; Unhappy slave ! and pupil to a bell! But boldly say each night,
Which his hour's work, as well as hours, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, does tell! Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to. Unhappy to the last, the kind releasing day.
FROM DRYDEN TO BURNS.
(1631 - 1701.)
The soft complaining flute
The woes of hopeless lovers,
SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion, The tuneful voice was heard from high,
For the fair, disdainful dame.
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise ?
This universal frame began : Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
ran, The diapason closing full in man.
Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place, What passion cannot music raise and quell?
Sequacious of the lyre: When Jubal struck the chorded 'shell But bright Cecilia raised the wonder
higher; His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell
When to her organ vocal breath was To worship that celestial sound.
given, Less than a God they thought there could An angel heard, and straight appeared, — not dwell
Mistaking earth for heaven ! Within the hollow of that shell
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
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
The trumpet shall be heard on high, Cries, Hark! the foes come ; The dead shall live, the living die, Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!" | And music shall untune the sky.