If golden fconces hang not on the walls,
To light the coftly fuppers and the balls;
If the proud palace shines not with the state
Of burnish'd bowls, and of reflected plate;
If well-tun'd harps, nor the more pleafing found
Of voices, from the vaulted roofs rebound;
Yet on the grafs, beneath a poplar fhade,
By the cool ftream, our careless limbs are laid;
With cheaper pleasure innocently bleft,
When the warm fpring with gaudy flow'rs is dreft.
Nor will th' raging fever's fire abate,
With golden canopies and beds of state;
But the poor patient will as foon be found
On the hard mattress, or the mother ground.
Then fince our bodies are not eas'd the more
By birth, or pow'r, or fortune's wealthy ftore,
'Tis plain thefe useless toys of every kind,
As little can relieve the lab'ring mind:
Unless we could suppose the dreadful fight,
Of marshall'd legions, moving to the fight;
Could, with their found and terrible array,
Expel our fears and drive the thoughts of death away.
But fince the fuppofition vain appears,
Since clinging cares, and trains of inbred fears,
Are not with founds to be affrighted thence,
But in the midst of pomp pursue the prince;
Not aw'd by arms, but in the prefence bold,
Without refpect to purple, or to gold;
Why fhould not we thefe pageantries defpife,
Whofe worth but in our want of reafon lies?
For life is all in wand'ring errors led;
And just as children are furpris'd with dread,
And tremble in the dark; fo riper years,
E'en in broad day-light, are poffeft with fears;
And shake at fhadows fanciful and vain,
As thofe which in the breaft of children reign.
Thefe bugbears of the mind, this inward hell,
No rays of outward fun-fhine can difpel;
But nature and right reafon muft difplay
Their beams abroad, and bring the darkfome foul to day.
PARAPHRASED.
CREATOR Spirit, by whofe aid,
The world's foundations firft were laid,
Come vifit every p'ous mind;
pour thy joys on human kind:
From fin and forrow fet us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O Source of uncreated light,
The Father's promis'd Paraclete!
Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,
Our hearts with heav'nly love infpire;
Come, and thy facred unction bring
To fanctify us while we fing.
Plenteous of grace, defcend from high,
Rich in thy feven-fold energy!
Thou ftrength of his Almighty hand,
Whofe pow'r does heav'n and earth command.
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who doft the gift of tongues difpense,
And crown'ft thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice controul,
Submit the fenies to the foul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand and hold 'em down,
Chafe from our minds th' infernal for,
And peace, the fruit of love beltow;
And, left our feet thould step aftray,
Protect, and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practife all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may fee
The Father, and the Son, by thee,
Immortal honour, endlefs fame,
Attend th' Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorify'd,
Who for loft man's redemption dy'd:
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!
The Power of Music.
AN ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
"TWAS at the royal feaft, for Perfia won,
By Philip's warlike fon :
Aloft in awful ftate
The god-like hero fate
On his imperial throne :
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So fhould defert in arms be crown'd:)
The lovely Thais by his fide
Sat like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deferves the fair,
Timotheus plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes afcend the sky,
And heav'nly joys inspire.
The fong began from Jove;
Who left his blifsful feats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love!)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the God:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And while he fought her fnowy breaft:
Then round her flender waif he curl'd,
And ftamp'd an image of himself, a fov'reign of the The lift'ning crowd admire the lofty found;
A prefent deity, they thout around,
A prefent deity the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears;
Affomes the god,
Affects to nod,
And feems to shake the spheres.
The praife of Bacchus then, the fweet mufician fung
Of Bacchus, ever fair, and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets; beat the drums:
Flush'd with a purple grace,
He thews his honeft face.
Now give the hautboys breath: he comes, he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain :
Bacchus' bleffings are a treasure;
Drinking is the foldier's pleasure :
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Sooth'd with the found, the king grew vain ;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he flew the
The mafter faw the madnefs rife ;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride..
He chofe a mournful mufe,
Fail'n from his high eftate,
And welt'ring in his blood:
Deferted, at his utmot need,
By thofe his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to clofe his eyes.
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