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O'er all the dreary coafts!
Dreadful gleams,
Difmal fcreams,

V.

By the ftreams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elyfian flow'rs,
By thofe happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,

Ör 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,
Reftore, reftore Eurydice to life;
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!

Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,
And cries of tortur'd ghofts!

But hark! he ftrikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghofts respire,
See, fhady forms advance!
Thy ftone, O Syfiphus, ftands ftill,
Ixion refts upon his wheel,

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

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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,

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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.

VI.

But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again fhe 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,

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VII.

Mufic the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's fevereft rage difarm:
Mufic can foften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please ;

All alone,
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever loft!
Now with Furies furrounded,
Defpairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's fnows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the defart he flies;
Hark! Hemus refounds with the Bacchanals cries-
Ah fee, he dies!

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,

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Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the blifs 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 fwelling notes our fouls aspire,
While folemn airs improve the facred 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'n; His numbers rais'd a fhade from hell, Hers lift the foul to heav'n,

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TWO CHORUSES

T O T H E

TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS,

STROPHE I.

YE

E fhades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught;
Where heav'nly vifions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay infpir'd!
In vain your guiltlefs laurels ftood
Unfpotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And fteel now glitters in the Mufes fhades.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Oh heav'n-born fisters! source of art!
Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and myftic Song!

To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?
Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

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STROPHE II.

When Athens finks by fates unjuft,
When wild barbarians spurn her duft;
Perhaps ev❜n Britain's utmoft shore
Shall ceafe to blush with ftranger's gore;
See Arts her favage fons controul,
An Athens rifing near the pole!
'Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Ye Gods! what juftice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!

Still, when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.

SEMICHORUS.

H Tyrant Love! haft thou possest

Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.
Love, foft intruder, enters here,
But ent'ring learns to be fincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,
Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
The mild and gen'rous breaft?

breaft?

20

CHORUS of YOUTHS and VIRGINS.

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s

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CHORUS.

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