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II.

By Music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor fwell too high, nor fink too low,
If in the breast tumultuous joys arife,
Mufic her foft, affuafive voice applies;

Or, when the foul is prefs'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors the fires with animated founds;

Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;

Melancholy lifts her head,

Morpheus roufes from his bed,

Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Listening Envy drops her fnakes;

Inteftine war no more our Paffions wage,

And giddy Factions hear

away their rage.

III.

But when our Country's caufe provokes to Arms,
How martial music every bofom warms!

So when the firft bold veffel dar'd the feas,

High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo faw her kindred trees
Defcend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods ftood round,

And men grew heroes at the found,
Enflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his fevenfold fhield difplay'd,
And half unfheath'd the fhining blade :
And feas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms!

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But

IV.

But when through all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegeton furrounds,

Love, ftrong as Death, the Poets led
To the pale nations of the dead,

What founds were heard,
What scenes appear'd,

O'er all the dreary coasts!

Dreadful gleams,

Difmal screams,

Fires that glow,

Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghosts!

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But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghosts refpire.

See, fhady forms advance!

Thy ftone, O Sifyphus, ftands ftill,
Ixion refts upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance t

The Furies fink upon their iron beds,

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By the hero's armed shades,

Glittering through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,

Wandering in the myrtle grove,

Reftore, reftore Eurydice to life:

Oh take the husband, or return the wife!

He fung, and hell confented

To hear the Poet's prayer;
Stern Proferpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus fong could prevail

O'er death, and o'er hell,

A conqueft how hard and how glorious!
Though fate had fast 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 the falls, again fhe dies, fhe dies!

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How wilt thou now the fatal fifters move?

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

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Now with Furies furrounded,

Defpairing, confounded,

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's snows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the defert he flies;
Hark! Hamus 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.

VII.

Mufic the fierceft grief can charm,

And fate's fevereft rage difarm :
Mufic can foften pain to cafe,

And make defpair and madness please:
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 powers incline their ear;
Borne on the fwelling notes our fouls afpire,
While folemn airs improve the facred fire;
And angels lean from heaven to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let Poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater power is given:
His numbers rais'd a fhade from hell,
Her's lift the foul to heaven.

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TWO

TWO

CHORUSE S

TO THE

TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

Altered from Shakespeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whofe defire thefe two Chorufes were compofed, to fupply as many, wanting in his play. They were fet many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-houfe.

Y

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

E fhades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught:
Where heavenly visions 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 steel now glitters in the Mufes' fhades.

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Oh heaven-born fifters! fource of art!

Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral truth and mystic Song!

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

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15

STROPHE

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