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Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy faction bear away their rage.

But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the inain:
Transported demigods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflam'd with glory's charms :
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade;
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms.

But when through all th' inferpal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as death, the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'd,
O'er all the dreary coasts!
Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,
Hollow groans,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts!
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And, see! the tortur'd ghosts respire;
See, shady forms advance!
Thy stone, o Sisyphus! stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance;
The furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their

heads.

By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elysian flowers;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or amaranthine bowers :
By the heroes' armed shades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life;
Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!...
He sung, and hell consented
To hear the poet's pray'r:
Stern Prosperine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail
O'er death and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Though fate had fast bound her,
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and love were victorious.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal move ?
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 meanders,
All alone,
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost!
Now with furies surrounded
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows:
See wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies;
Hark! Hæmusresounds with the Bacchanals' cries

Ah see, be 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,
And fate's severest rage disarm :
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please:
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 sound.
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 poet's tell;
To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n:
His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to Heav'n.

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

Written when the Author was about twelve years

old.

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,
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,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus uplamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

ODE.

The Dying Christian to his Soul. VITAL spark of heavenly flame ! Quit, О quit this mortal frame! 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 spirit, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul! can this be death? The world recedes, it disappears ! Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly Ograve! where is thy victory? o death! where is thy sting?

SPRING.

PASTORAL I.-.-DAMON.

To Sir William Trumbal.

FIRST in these fields I try the sylvan strains, Nor blush to sporton Windsor's blissful plains : Fair Thames! flow gently from thy sacred spring, While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing; Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play, And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.

Yoa, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r, Enjoy the glory to be great no more, And carrying with you all the world can boast: To all the world illustriously are lost! Olet my Muse her slender reed inspire, Till in your native shades you tune the lyre: So when the nightingale to rest removes, The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves; But charm'd to silence, listens while she sings, And all th' aerial audience clap their wings.

Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews, Two swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the

Muse, Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care, Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair; T'he dawn now blushing on the mountain's side, Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied: Daph. Hear how the birds on erery blooming

spray
With joyous music wake the dawning day!
Why sit we mute, when early linnets sing,
WIren warbling Philomel salutes the spring?
Why sit we sad, when Phosphor shines so clear,
And lavish Nature paints the purple year ?
Streph. Sing then, and Damon shall attend the

strain,
While yon slow oxen turn the furrow'd plain :
Here the bright crocus, and blue violet glow;
Here western winds on breathing roses blow:

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