Lives of the English Poets : Prior, Congreve, Blackmore, Pope. Samuel Johnson

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      Hark!

      No, all is hushed and still as death.—’Tis dreadful!

      How reverend is the face of this tall pile,

      Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,

      To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,

      By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,

      Looking tranquillity!  It strikes an awe

      And terror on my aching sight; the tombs

      And monumental caves of death look cold,

      And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.

      Give use thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;

      Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear

      Thy voice—my own affrights me with its echoes.

      “The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills

      Furrow the brows of all the impending hills.

      The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn,

      And each, with streaming eyes, supplies his wanting urn.

      The fauns forsake the woods, the nymphs the grove,

      And round the plain in sad distractions rove:

      In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,

      And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.

      With their sharp nails, themselves the satyrs wound,

      And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground.

      Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak,

      Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke

      See Pales weeping too in wild despair,

      And to the piercing winds her bosses bare.

      And see yon fading myrtle, where appears

      The Queen of Love, all bathed in flowing tears;

      See how she wrings her hands, and beats her breast,

      And tears her useless girdle from her waist:

      Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves!

      For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves.”

      “And now the winds, which had so long been still,

      Began the swelling air with sighs to fill;

      The water-nymphs, who motionless remained

      Like images of ice, while she complained,

      Now loosed their streams; as when descending rains

      Roll the steep torrents headlong o’er the plains.

      The prone creation who so long had gazed

      Charmed with her cries, and at her griefs amazed,

      Began to roar and howl with horrid yell,

      Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell!

      Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around,

      And echo multiplied each mournful sound.”

      “The hovering winds on downy wings shall wait around,

      And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying sound.”

      “’Twas now, when flowery lawns the prospect made,

      And flowing brooks beneath a forest shade,

      A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd,

      Stood feeding by; while two fierce bulls prepared

      Their arméd heads for light, by fate of war to prove

      The victor worthy of the fair one’s love;

      Unthought presage of what met next my view;

      For soon the shady scene withdrew.

      And now, for woods, and fields, and springing flowers,

      Behold a town arise, bulwarked with walls and lofty towers;

      Two rival armies all the plain o’erspread,

      Each in battalia ranged, and shining arms arrayed

      With eagle eyes beholding both from far,

      Namur, the price and mistress of the war.”

      “This said, no more remained.  The ethereal host

      Again impatient crowd the crystal coast.

      The father now, within his spacious hands,

      Encompassed all the mingled mass of seas and lands;

      And, having heaved aloft the ponderous sphere,

      He launched the world to float in ambient air.”