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He makes his moan;
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 sung;
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please:
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound.
TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.
Altered from Shakespeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose desire these two Choruses were composed, to supply as many, wanting in his Play. They were set many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-house.
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
YE shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal sages taught;
In vain your guiltless laurels stood
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
Oh heaven-born sisters! source of art!
Moral truth and mystic song!
To what new clime, what distant sky,
Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore
And Athen rising near the pole !
Ye gods! what justice rules the ball!
In every age, in every state!
Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
O tyrant love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love's purer flames the gods approve;
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Oh source of every social tye
What tender passions take their turns,
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises;
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine:
Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Sacred Hymen! these are thine
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.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Blest, 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,
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
The dying Christian to his Soul.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!