He the same play by land has shown, As Tourville did upon the main. Yet is the marshal made a peer!

O William, may thy arms advance, That he may lose Dinant next year, And so be constable of France.

ON MRS. ARABELLA HUNT, SINGING.

CONGREVE.

Written about 1701. First printed, in the 3rd vol. of the Works, in

1710.

I.

ET all be hush'd, each softest motion cease,

L'

Be ev'ry loud tumultuous thought at peace,

And ev'ry ruder gasp of breath

Be calm, as in the arms of death:

And thou, most fickle, most uneasy part,
Thou restless wanderer, my heart,

Be still; gently, ah! gently, leave,
Thou busy, idle thing, to heave :

Stir not a pulse; and let my blood,
That turbulent unruly flood,

Be softly staid:

Let me be all, but my attention, dead.

Go, rest, unnecessary springs of life,

Leave your officious toil and strife;
For I would hear her voice, and try
If it be possible to die.

II.

Come, all ye love-sick maids and wounded swains, And listen to her healing strains.

A wondrous balm between her lips she wears,

Of sov'reign force to soften cares,

And this thro' ev'ry ear she can impart,

(By tuneful breath diffus'd) to ev'ry heart.
Swiftly the gentle charmer flies,

And to the tender grief soft air applies,
Which warbling mystic sounds

Cements the bleeding panter's wounds.
But, ah! beware of clam'rous moan;
Let no unpleasing murmur or harsh groan
Your slighted loves declare ;

Your very tend❜rest moving sighs forbear,
For even they will be too boist'rous here.
Hither let nought but sacred silence come,
And let all saucy praise be dumb.

III.

And, lo! silence himself is here;
Methinks I see the midnight God appear :
In all his downy pomp array'd,

Behold the rev'rend shade;

An ancient sigh he sits upon,

Whose memory of sound is long since gone,
And purposely annihilated for his throne;

H

Beneath two soft transparent clouds do meet,
In which he seems to sink his softer feet;

A melancholy thought, condens'd to air,
Stolen from a lover in despair,

Like a thin mantle serves to wrap

In fluid folds his visionary shape;

A wreath of darkness round his head he wears, Where curling mists supply the want of hairs ; While the still vapours, which from poppies rise, Bedew his hoary face and lull his eyes.

IV.

But, hark! the heav'nly sphere turns round,
And silence now is drown'd

In ecstasy of sound.

How on a sudden the still air is charm'd,

As if all harmony were just alarm'd!
And ev'ry soul, with transport fill'd,
Alternately is thaw'd and chill'd.
See how the heav'nly choir

Come flocking to admire,

And with what speed and care

Descending angels cut the thinnest air !

Haste then, come all th' immortal throng,

And listen to her song ;

Leave your

lov'd mansions in the sky,

And hither, quickly hither, fly;