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What paffion cannot Mufic raise and quell!
When Jubal ftruck the chorded shell,
His liftening brethren ftood around,
And, wond'ring, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial found.

Lefs than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke fo fweetly and fo well. What paffion cannot Mufic raise and quell?


The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With fhrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, hark! the foes come;

Charge, Charge, 'tis too late to retreat.


The foft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whofe dirge is whifper'd by the warbling lute


Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and defperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of paffion,
For the fair, difdainful dame.



But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,

The facred organ's praise?

Notes infpiring holy love,

Notes that wing their henly ways

To mend the choirs above.


Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Miftaking earth for heaven..

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As from the power of facred lays,
The Spheres began to move,

And fung the great Creator's praise
To all the bless'd above;

So when the laft and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet fhall be heard on high,
The dead fhall live, the living die,
And Mufic fall untune the sky.



The TEARS of AMYNTA, for the DEATH of DAMON.



Na bank, befide a willow,


Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,

Sad Amynta figh'd alone:

From the chearlefs dawn of morning

Till the dews of night returning,
Sighing thus she made her moan:
Hope is banish'd,

Joys are vanish'd,

Damon, my belov'd, is gone!


Time, I dare thee to discover Such a youth, and fuch a lover; Oh! so true, fo kind was he! Damon was the pride of nature, Charming in his every feature; Damon liv'd alone for me; Melting kiffes,

Murmuring bliffes:

Who fo liv'd and lov'd as we!


Never fhall we curfe the morning,
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, Love supplying


All the joys he drain'd before:
Death, come end me

To befriend me;

Love and Damon are no more.




YLVIA the fair, in the bloom of fifteen,


Felt an innocent warmth, as fhe lay on the green: She had heard of a pleasure, and something she guest By the towzing, and tumbling, and touching her breast: She faw the men eager, but was at a loss,

What they meant by their fighing, and kiffing so close; By their praying and whining,

And clafping and twining,

And panting and wishing,

And fighing and kiffing,

And fighing and kiffing so close.


Ah! fhe cry'd; ah! for a languifhing maid,
In a country of Chriftians, to die without aid!
Not a Whig, or a Tory, or Trimmer at least,
Or a Proteftant parfon, or Catholic prieft,
T' inftruct a young virgin, that is at a loss,
What they meant by their fighing, and kiffing so close!

By their praying and whining,

And clasping and twining,

And panting and wishing,

And fighing and kissing,

And fighing and kiffing fo clofe.



Cupid in fhape of a fwain did appear,
He faw the fad wound, and in pity drew near;
Then fhew'd her his arrow, and bid her not fear;
For the pain was no more than a maiden may bear:
When the balm was infus'd, fhe was not at a lofs,
What they meant by their fighing, and kiffing fo clofe;
By their praying and whining,

And clafping and twining,

And panting and wifhing,

And fighing and kiffing,


And fighing and kiffing so close.




Choir of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To choose a May-lady to govern the year;

All the nymphs were in white, and the fhepherds in


The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen:
But Phyllis refus'd it, and fighing did say,

I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.


While Pan, and fair Syrinx, are fled from our fhore,
The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more:
The foft God of pleasure, that warm'd our defires,
Has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires:
And vows that himself, and his mother, will mourn,
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.


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