O'er th' Elyfian flow'rs,

By thofe happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,

Or Amaranthine bow'rs:
By the hero's armed fhades
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades,
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wandring in the myrtle grove,
Reftore, restore Eurydice to life;
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!
He fung, and hell confented

To hear the Poet's pray'r;

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?
Tho' fate had faft bound her

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

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 Meanders,

All alone, y 99
Unheard, unknown,"

He makes his moan;

And calls her ghost,

For ever, ever, ever loft!

See, wild as the winds, o'er the defart he flies;

Hark! Hamus refounds with the Bacchanals cries

--Ah fee, he dies!

4.

Yet

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he fung,

Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue,
Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,!

Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung.

VII.

Music the fiercest griefs can charm,

And fate's feverest rage disarm :
Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please:

Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the blifs above.

This the divine Cecilia found,

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

Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;

Born on the fwelling notes our fouls afpire,
While folemn airs improve the facred fire;

And Angels lean from heav'n to hear!

Of

Of Orpheus now no more let Poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n;
His numbers rais'd a fhade from hell,
Hers lift the foul to heav'n.

Two

TWO CHORUs's to the Tragedy of Brutus, not yet publick.

Chorus of Athenians.

Strophe I.

E fhades, where facred truth is fought;

YE

Groves, where immortal Sages taught;

Where heav'nly visions Plato fir'd,
And godlike Zeno lay infpir'd!

In vain your guiltlefs laurels ftood,
Unfpotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Mufes fhades.

Antiftrophe I,

Oh heav'n-born fifters! fource of art!

Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart;

Who lead fair Virtue's train along,

Moral Truth, and myftic Song!