Imatges de pÓgina
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O’er all the dreary coasts!

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Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,

60 Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghosts !
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre ;
And see! the tortur'd ghosts respire,

See, fhady forms advance!
Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands ftill,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance ! The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurl'd hang liftning round their heads.

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By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er th’Elysian flow'rs,
By those happy souls 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,

Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life;
Oh take the husband, or return the wife;

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He sung, and hell consented

To hear the Poet's pray’r:
Stern Proserpine" relented,
And gave him back the fair,

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Thus fong could prevail
O'er death and o'er hell,

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H 2

A con

A conquest how hard and how glorious !

Tho' fate had fast bound her

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

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VI.
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes :
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies !
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?

95 No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.

Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in mæanders,

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All alone,
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;

And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost!

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Now with Furies furrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's snows:
See, wild as the winds, o’er the desart he flies ; IIO
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,

115 Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung,

VII.
Music the fierceít grief can charm,
And fate's feverest rage difarm :
Music can foften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please ;

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Our 125

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’o; His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,

Hers lift the soul to heay'n,

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TWO CHORUSES

TO THE

TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

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STROPHE I.
E shades, where sacred 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.

ANTISTROPHE I.
Oh heav'n-born fifters! fource of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
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 fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

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STROPHE

STROPHE II.
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
When wild barbarians spurn her duft;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore
Shall cease to blush with stranger's gore;
See Arts her savage fons controul,

An Athens rising near the pole!
'Till some new Tyrant lífts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from the land.

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ANTISTROPHE IT.
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 curs'd effects of civil hate,

In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state !
Still, when the luft of tyrant pow'r succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.

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CHORUS of Youths and VIRGINS.

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SEMICHORUS,
H Tyrant Love ! haft thou pofleft

The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast:
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.
Love, loft intruder, enters here,

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But ent'ring learns to be fincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,

Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?

CHORUS

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