« AnteriorContinuar »
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes :
Again she falls, again the dies, the dies !
How wilt thou now the fatal fifters move ?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. 95
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in Mæanders,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever loft!
Now with Furies surrounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows : See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals cries-
Ah see, he dies !
Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he fung,
Eurydice fill trembled on his tongue,
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
115 Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung:
Music the fierceft grief can charm,
And fate's feverest rage difarm :
Music can foften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please :
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss 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 pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;
And Angels lean from heav'n to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let Poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n; His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to heav'n.
E shades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught :
Where heav'nly visions Plato fir’d,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd !
In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses shades.
ANTIS TROPHE I.
Oh heav'n-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart; 10
a Altered from Shakespear by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose desire these two Chorus's were composed to supply as many, wanting in his play. They were set many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckinghamhouse, P.
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and mystic Song !
To what new clime, what diftant sky,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore ?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians fpurn her duft ;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore
Shall cease to blush with stranger's gore,
See Arts her favage sons controul,
And Athens rising near the pole !
"Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from the land.
ANTIS TROPHE II,
Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball !
Freedom and Arts together fall ;
whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!
Still, when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.
CHORUS of Youths and VIRGINS.
H Tyrant haft
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But entring learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame defire,
Which Nature has imprest?
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breaft?
flames the Gods approve ;
The Gods and Brutus bend to love ;
Brutus for absent Porcia fighs,
And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes,
What is loose love? a tranfient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of luft,
A vapour fed from wild defire,
A wand'ring, felf-consuming fire.