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Yet e'en in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And antedate the bliss above.
And angels lean from Heaven to hear.
Her's lift the soul to Heaven.
ODE ON SOLITUDE.
WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS ABOUT twelve
HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 125 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Bless'd who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day:
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please,
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die:
Tell where I lie.
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying;
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond Nature! cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
• What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul! can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
With sounds seraphic ring:
O death! where is thy sting?
THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.
Chorus of Athenians.
Unspotted long with human blood.
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
And Athens rising near the pole!
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, cursed effects of civil hate, · In every age, in every state! Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.
Chorus of Youths and Virgins.
Wisdom and Wit in vain reclaim,
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
Which Nature hath impress’d?
The mild and generous breast?
Brutus for absent Porcia sighs,
What is loose love? a transient gust,
And burn for ever one:
Productive as the sun.
Oh, source of every social tie,
Whether his hoary sire he spies,