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Desc2ND, ye nine! descend, and fing;
The breathing inftruments inspire ;
Wake into voice each filent ftring,
And sweep the founding lyre!

In a fadly-pleafing strain

Let the warbling lute complain;
Let the loud trumpet found,
Till the roofs all around

The fhrill echoes rebound:
While, in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep, majeftic, folemn organs blow,

Hark! the numbers foft and clear
Gently fteal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading founds the fkies; Exulting in triumph now fwell the bold notes, In broken air trembling, the wild mufic floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The ftrains decay,

And melt away, In a dying, dying fall.

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By mufic, minds an equal temper know,
Nor fwell too high, nor fink too low.
If in the breaft tumultuous joys arife,
Mufic her foft, affuafive voice applies;

Or when the foul is prefs'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors the fires with animated founds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheu roufes from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Listening envy drops her fnakes;
Inteftine war no more our pallions wage,
And giddy factions hear away their rage.

111.

But when our country's caufe provokes to arms,
How martial mufic every bofom warms!
So when the first bold veffel dar'd the feas,
High on the ftern the Thracian rais'd his ftrain,
While Argo faw her kindred trees

Transported demi-gods stood round, And men grew heroes at the found, Enflam'd with glory's charms : Each chief his feven-fold fhield display'd,. And half unfheath'd the fhining blade: And feas, and rocks, and skies, rebound To arms, to arms, to arms!

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B the ftreams that ever flow,

By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er the Elysian flowers;

By thofe happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of afphodel,
Or amaranthine bowers;

By the hero's armed fhades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,
Reftore, restore Eurydice to life:

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Mufic the fierceft grief can charm,
And fate's fevereft rage difarm:
Mufic can foften pain to eafe,

And make defpair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the blifs above.
This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal powers incline their ear;
Borne on the fwelling notes our fouls aspire,
While folemn airs improve the facred fire;
And angels lean from heaven to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater power is given:
His numbers rais'd a fhade from hell,
Her's lift the foul to heaven.

TWO CHORUSES

TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

Altered from Shakspeare by the Duke of Buckingham; at whose defire these two Choruses were compofed, to supply as many, wanting in his play. They were fet many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-house.

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Oh, heaven-born fifters! fource of art! Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart; Who lead fair virtue's train along, Mortal truth and mystic song!

To what new clime, what diftant sky,

Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore? Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild barbarians fpurn her duft;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost store

Shall ceafe to blush with stranger's gore;
See arts her favage fons controul,

And Athens rifing near the pole !
Till fome new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madnefs tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Ye gods, what justice rules the ball!
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
Oh, curs'd effects of civil hate,

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He fung, and hell confented
To hear the poet's prayer';
Stern Proferpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus fong could prevail
O'er death, and o'er hell,

A conqueft how hard and how glorious!
Though fate had fast bound her

With Styx nine times round her, Yet mufic and love were victorious.

VI.

But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again the falls, again fhe dies, fhe dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal fifters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Befide the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders
Rolling in mæanders
All alone,

Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever loft!
Now with furies surrounded,
Defpairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's fnows:

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Mufic the fierceft grief can charm,
And fate's fevereft rage difarm:
Mufic can soften pain to ease,

And make defpair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the blifs above.

This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found. When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th' immortal powers incline their ear; Borne on the fwelling notes our fouls aspire, While folemn airs improve the facred fire; And angels lean from heaven to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is given: His numbers rais'd a fhade from hell, Her's lift the foul to heaven.

TWO CHORUSES

TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

Altered from Shakspeare by the Duke of Buckingham; at whofe defire these two Choruses were compofed, to fupply as many, wanting in his play. They were fet many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-house.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

Ys fhades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal fages taught;
Where heavenly vifions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay infpir'd!

In vain your guiltless laurels food
Unfpotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And fteel now glitters in the muses shades.

ANTISTROPHE 1.

Oh, heaven-born fifters! fource of art! Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart; Who lead fair virtue's train along, Mortal truth and mystic song!

To what new clime, what diftant sky,

Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
STROPHE II.

When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild barbarians fpurn her duft;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost store
Shall ceafe to blush with stranger's gore;
See arts her favage fons controul,
And Athens rifing near the pole!
Till fonie new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madnefs tears them from the land.
ANTISTROPHE II.

Ye gods, what justice rules the ball!
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.

Oh, curs'd effects of civil hate,

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