F rom harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
"Arise, ye more than dead."
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began;
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason[96] closing full in man.
II.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?
III.
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,
Cries, hark! the foes come:
Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat.
IV.
The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers;
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
V.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.
VI.
But, oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
VII.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;
When to her organ[97] vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
THE
TEARS OF AMYNTA,
FOR THE
DEATH OF DAMON.
A SONG.
I.
O n a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sighed alone;
From the cheerless dawn of morning
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus, she made her moan:
Hope is banished,
Joys are vanished,
Damon, my beloved, is gone!
II.
Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth, and such a lover;
Oh, so true, so kind was he!
Damon was the pride of nature,
Charming in his every feature;
Damon lived alone for me:
Melting kisses,
Murmuring blisses;
Who so lived and loved as we!
III.
Never shall we curse the morning,
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, love supplying
All the joys he drained before.
Death, come end me,
To befriend me;
Love and Damon are no more.
A SONG.
I.
Sylvia, the fair, in the bloom of fifteen,
Felt an innocent warmth as she lay on the green;
She had heard of a pleasure, and something she guest
By the towzing, and tumbling, and touching her breast.
She saw the men eager, but was at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close;
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
II.
Ah! she cried, ah, for a languishing maid,
In a country of Christians, to die without aid!
Not a Whig, or a Tory, or Trimmer at least,
Or a Protestant parson, or Catholic priest,
To instruct a young virgin, that is at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close!
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
III.
Cupid, in shape of a swain, did appear,
He saw the sad wound, and in pity drew near;
Then showed her his arrow, and bid her not fear,
For the pain was no more than a maiden may bear.
When the balm was infused, she was not at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close;
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
THE
LADY'S SONG.
The obvious application of this song is to the banishment of King
James, and his beautiful consort Mary of Este.
I.
A choir of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To chuse a May-lady to govern the year:
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green,
The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen;
But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
II.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banished, and Love is no more;
The soft god of pleasure, that warmed our desires,
Has broken his bow, and extinguished his fires,
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
III.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more,
For we will perform what the deity swore:
But, if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheep hooks, and take to your arms;
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx, return.
A SONG.
I.
F air, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.
II.
Your face for conquest was designed,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you.
III.
No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.
A SONG.
H igh state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
My soul does inspire;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
Your love let me crave;
Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing;
That empire is all I would have.
Love's my petition,
All my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a lover,
So real a flame,
I'll die, I'll die,
So give up my game.
RONDELAY.
I.
C hloe found Amyntas lying,
All in tears, upon the plain,
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
II.
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful swain.
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
III.
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful swain.—
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain.
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain,
IV.
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain;
But, repenting, and complying,
When he kissed, she kissed again:
Kissed him up before his dying;
Kissed him up, and eased his pain.
A SONG.
I.
G o tell Amynta, gentle swain,
I would not die, nor dare complain:
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy words will more prevail than mine.
To souls oppressed, and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain this kind relief,
That music should in sounds convey,
What dying lovers dare not say.
II.
A sigh or tear, perhaps, she'll give,
But love on pity cannot live.
Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid.
Tell her my pains so fast increase,
That soon they will be past redress;
But, ah! the wretch that speechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.
A SONG
TO A
FAIR YOUNG LADY,
GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING.
I.
A sk not the cause, why sullen spring
So long delays her flowers to bear?
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year?
Chloris is gone, and fate provides
To make it spring where she resides.
II.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;
She cast not back a pitying eye;
But left her lover in despair,
To sigh, to languish, and to die.
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure,
To give the wounds they will not cure!
III.
Great god of love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,
And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst placed such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
IV.
When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs,
And every life but mine recal.
I only am, by love, designed
To be the victim for mankind.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST,
OR
THE POWER OF MUSIC;
AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST CECILIA'S DAY.
This celebrated Ode was written for the Saint's Festival in 1697, when
the following stewards officiated: Hugh Colvill, Esq.; Capt. Thomas
Newman; Orlando Bridgeman, Esq.; Theophilus Buller, Esq.;
Leonard Wessell, Esq.; Paris Slaughter, Esq.; Jeremiah Clarke,
Gent.; and Francis Rich, Gent. The merits of this unequalled effusion
of lyrical poetry, are fully discussed in the general criticism.
I.
'T was at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft, in awful state,
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crowned.)
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate 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.
CHORUS.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
II.
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
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 seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love.)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then, round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.—
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity! they shout around;
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravished ears,
The monarch hears;
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
CHORUS.
With ravished ears,
The monarch hears;
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
III.
The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung;
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flushed with a purple grace
He shews his honest face:
Now, give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
CHORUS.
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldiers pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
IV.
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 slain.—
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 looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving, in his altered soul,
The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
CHORUS.
Revolving, in his altered soul,
The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
V.
The mighty master smiled, to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas 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, O 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.
CHORUS.
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.
VI.
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 awaked 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!
Those 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 another Helen, fired another Troy.
CHORUS.
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
VII.
Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing flute,
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.
GRAND CHORUS.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.
VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS,
PARAPHRASED.
C reator spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us, while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy seven-fold energy!
Thou strength of his Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command.
}
{ Proceeding spirit, our defence,
{ Who do'st the gifts of tongues dispense,
{ And crown'st thy gift with eloquence.
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, O, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice controul,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And, when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.
Chace from our minds the infernal foe;
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe;
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name;
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died;
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee.
TALES FROM CHAUCER.
TO
HIS GRACE
THE
DUKE OF ORMOND.[98]
S ome estates are held, in England, by paying a fine
at the change of every lord. I have enjoyed the patronage
of your family, from the time of your excellent
grandfather to this present day. I have dedicated
the translations of the "Lives of Plutarch"
to the first duke;[99] and have celebrated the memory
of your heroic father.[100] Though I am very short of
the age of Nestor, yet I have lived to a third generation
of your house; and, by your grace's favour,
am admitted still to hold from you by the same tenure.
I am not vain enough to boast, that I have deserved
the value of so illustrious a line; but my fortune
is the greater, that, for three descents, they
have been pleased to distinguish my poems from
those of other men, and have accordingly made me
their peculiar care. May it be permitted me to say,
that as your grandfather and father were cherished
and adorned with honours by two successive monarchs,
so I have been esteemed and patronized by
the grandfather, the father, and the son, descended
from one of the most ancient, most conspicuous,
and most deserving families in Europe.
It is true, that by delaying the payment of my
last fine, when it was due by your grace's accession to
the titles and patrimonies of your house, I may
seem, in rigour of law, to have made a forfeiture of
my claim; yet my heart has always been devoted to
your service; and since you have been graciously
pleased, by your permission of this address, to accept
the tender of my duty, it is not yet too late to
lay these poems at your feet.
The world is sensible, that you worthily succeed
not only to the honours of your ancestors, but also
to their virtues. The long chain of magnanimity,
courage, easiness of access, and desire of doing
good, even to the prejudice of your fortune, is so
far from being broken in your grace, that the precious
metal yet runs pure to the newest link of it;
which I will not call the last, because I hope and
pray it may descend to late posterity; and your
flourishing youth, and that of your excellent duchess,
are happy omens of my wish.
It is observed by Livy, and by others, that some
of the noblest Roman families retained a resemblance
of their ancestry, not only in their shapes
and features, but also in their manners, their qualities,
and the distinguishing characters of their
minds. Some lines were noted for a stern, rigid
virtue; savage, haughty, parsimonious, and unpopular;
others were more sweet and affable, made
of a more pliant paste, humble, courteous, and obliging;
studious of doing charitable offices, and diffusive
of the goods which they enjoyed. The last
of these is the proper and indelible character of your
grace's family. God Almighty has endued you
with a softness, a beneficence, an attractive behaviour
winning on the hearts of others, and so sensible
of their misery, that the wounds of fortune
seem not inflicted on them, but on yourself.[101] You
are so ready to redress, that you almost prevent
their wishes, and always exceed their expectations;
as if what was yours was not your own, and not
given you to possess, but to bestow on wanting
merit. But this is a topic which I must cast in
shades, lest I offend your modesty; which is so far
from being ostentatious of the good you do, that it
blushes even to have it known; and, therefore, I
must leave you to the satisfaction and testimony of
your own conscience, which, though it be a silent
panegyric, is yet the best.
You are so easy of access, that Poplicola[102] was not
more, whose doors were opened on the outside to
save the people even the common civility of asking
entrance; where all were equally admitted; where
nothing that was reasonable was denied; where
misfortune was a powerful recommendation; and
where, I can scarce forbear saying, that want itself
was a powerful mediator, and was next to merit.
The history of Peru assures us, that their Incas,
above all their titles, esteemed that the highest,
which called them lovers of the poor;—a name more
glorious than the Felix, Pius, and Augustus, of the
Roman emperors, which were epithets of flattery,
deserved by few of them; and not running in a
blood like the perpetual gentleness, and inherent
goodness, of the Ormond family.
Gold, as it is the purest, so it is the softest and
most ductile of all metals. Iron, which is the hardest,
gathers rust, corrodes itself, and is, therefore,
subject to corruption. It was never intended for
coins and medals, or to bear the faces and inscriptions
of the great. Indeed, it is fit for armour, to
bear off insults, and preserve the wearer in the day
of battle; but, the danger once repelled, it is laid
aside by the brave, as a garment too rough for civil
conversation; a necessary guard in war, but too
harsh and cumbersome in peace, and which keeps
off the embraces of a more humane life.
For this reason, my lord, though you have courage
in an heroical degree, yet I ascribe it to you but
as your second attribute: mercy, beneficence, and
compassion, claim precedence, as they are first in
the divine nature. An intrepid courage, which is
inherent in your grace, is at best but a holiday-kind
of virtue, to be seldom exercised, and never but in
cases of necessity; affability, mildness, tenderness,
and a word, which I would fain bring back to its
original signification of virtue, I mean good-nature,
are of daily use. They are the bread of mankind,
and staff of life. Neither sighs, nor tears, nor
groans, nor curses of the vanquished, follow acts of
compassion and of charity; but a sincere pleasure,
and serenity of mind, in him who performs an action
of mercy, which cannot suffer the misfortunes
of another without redress, lest they should bring
a kind of contagion along with them, and pollute
the happiness which he enjoys.
Yet since the perverse tempers of mankind, since
oppression on one side, and ambition on the other,
are sometimes the unavoidable occasions of war,
that courage, that magnanimity, and resolution,
which is born with you, cannot be too much commended:
And here it grieves me that I am scanted
in the pleasure of dwelling on many of your actions;
but αἰδέομαι Τρῶας is an expression which Tully often
uses, when he would do what he dares not, and
fears the censure of the Romans.
I have sometimes been forced to amplify on
others; but here, where the subject is so fruitful,
that the harvest overcomes the reaper, I am shortened
by my chain, and can only see what is forbidden
me to reach; since it is not permitted me to
commend you according to the extent of my wishes,
and much less is it in my power to make my
commendations equal to your merits.
Yet, in this frugality of your praises, there are
some things which I cannot omit, without detracting
from your character. You have so formed
your own education, as enables you to pay the debt
you owe your country, or, more properly speaking,
both your countries; because you were born, I may
almost say, in purple, at the castle of Dublin, when
your grandfather was lord-lieutenant, and have since
been bred in the court of England.
If this address had been in verse, I might have
called you, as Claudian calls Mercury, Numen commune,
gemino faciens commercia mundo. The better
to satisfy this double obligation, you have early cultivated
the genius you have to arms, that when the
service of Britain or Ireland shall require your courage
and your conduct, you may exert them both
to the benefit of either country. You began in the
cabinet what you afterwards practised in the camp;
and thus both Lucullus and Cæsar (to omit a crowd
of shining Romans) formed themselves to the war,
by the study of history, and by the examples of the
greatest captains, both of Greece and Italy, before
their time. I name those two commanders in particular,
because they were better read in chronicle
than any of the Roman leaders; and that Lucullus,
in particular, having only the theory of war from
books, was thought fit, without practice, to be sent
into the field, against the most formidable enemy of
Rome. Tully, indeed, was called the learned consul
in derision; but then he was not born a soldier;
his head was turned another way: when he read the
tactics, he was thinking on the bar, which was his
field of battle. The knowledge of warfare is thrown
away on a general, who dares not make use of what
he knows. I commend it only in a man of courage
and resolution; in him it will direct his martial spirit,
and teach him the way to the best victories,
which are those that are least bloody, and which,
though achieved by the hand, are managed by the
head. Science distinguishes a man of honour from
one of those athletic brutes whom, undeservedly,
we call heroes. Cursed be the poet, who first honoured
with that name a mere Ajax, a man-killing
idiot! The Ulysses of Ovid upbraids his ignorance,
that he understood not the shield for which he
pleaded; there was engraven on it plans of cities,
and maps of countries, which Ajax could not comprehend,
but looked on them as stupidly as his fellow-beast,
the lion. But, on the other side, your
grace has given yourself the education of his rival;
you have studied every spot of ground in Flanders,
which, for these ten years past, has been the scene
of battles, and of sieges. No wonder if you performed
your part with such applause, on a theatre
which you understood so well.
If I designed this for a poetical encomium, it
were easy to enlarge on so copious a subject; but,
confining myself to the severity of truth, and to
what is becoming me to say, I must not only pass
over many instances of your military skill, but also
those of your assiduous diligence in the war, and of
your personal bravery, attended with an ardent
thirst of honour; a long train of generosity; profuseness
of doing good; a soul unsatisfied with all
it has done, and an unextinguished desire of doing
more. But all this is matter for your own historians;
I am, as Virgil says, Spatiis exclusus iniquis.
Yet, not to be wholly silent of all your charities,
I must stay a little on one action, which preferred
the relief of others to the consideration of yourself.
When, in the battle of Landen, your heat of courage
(a fault only pardonable to your youth) had
transported you so far before your friends, that they
were unable to follow, much less to succour you;
when you were not only dangerously, but, in all
appearance, mortally wounded; when in that desperate
condition you were made prisoner, and carried
to Namur, at that time in possession of the
French;[103] then it was, my lord, that you took a considerable
part of what was remitted to you of your
own revenues, and, as a memorable instance of
your heroic charity, put it into the hands of Count
Guiscard, who was governor of the place, to be distributed
among your fellow-prisoners. The French
commander, charmed with the greatness of your
soul, accordingly consigned it to the use for which
it was intended by the donor; by which means the
lives of so many miserable men were saved, and a
comfortable provision made for their subsistence,
who had otherwise perished, had you not been the
companion of their misfortune; or rather sent by
Providence, like another Joseph, to keep out famine
from invading those, whom, in humility, you
called your brethren. How happy was it for those
poor creatures, that your grace was made their fellow-sufferer?
And how glorious for you, that you
chose to want, rather than not relieve the wants of
others? The heathen poet, in commending the charity
of Dido to the Trojans, spoke like a Christian: