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.