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The mighty master smil'd, to see
Sostly sweet in Lydian measures,
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O, think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair
Who caus'd his care,
Sigh'd and look’d, and sigh'd again;
Now strike the golden lyre again;
Hark, hark! the horrid sound
And amaz'd, he stares around.
See the furies arise,
How they hiss in their hair
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand !
And unbury'd remain,
To the valiant crew:
Thaïs led the way,
To light him to his prey,
Thus, long ago
And sounding lyre
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
Let old Tinotheus yield the prize,
Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
“Ah, why thus abandon's to darkness and woc, Why thus, lonely Pluilomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass awayFull quickly they pass - but they never return.
“ Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The Moon half-extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladuess pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again.But Man's faded glory no change shall renew, Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vaiu !
“ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittring with dew, Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn!
when shall it dawn on the night of the grave !"
e shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I;
I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave hier we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
--I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.