II.

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

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

Warriors fhe 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,

Liftening Envy drops her fnakes; Inteftine war no more our Paffions wage, And giddy Factions hear away their rage.

III.

But when our Country's cause provokes to Arms,

How martial mufic every bofom warms!

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

High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,

While Argo faw her kindred trees

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Defcend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the found,
Enflam'd with glory's charms :
Each chief his fevenfold shield display'd,

And half unsheath'd the shining 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 surrounds,

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 fcreams,

Fires that glow,

Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghosts!

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

See, fhady forms advance!

Thy stone, O Sifyphus, stands still,
Ixion refts upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance!

The Furies fink upon their iron beds,

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And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.

V.

By the streams that ever flow,

By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er the Elyfian flowers;
By thofe happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,

Or Amaranthine bowers;

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By

By the hero's armed fhades,

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

Wandering in the myrtle grove,

Restore, restore 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 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 the 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

All alone,

Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;

And calls her ghost,

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For ever, ever, ever loft!

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Now

Now with Furies furrounded,

Defpairing, confounded,

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's fnows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the defert he flies;

Hark! Hæmus refounds with the Bacchanals cries

Ah fee, he dies!

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he fung,

Eurydice still 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 feverest rage difarm :

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Mufic can foften pain to ease,

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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 swelling notes our fouls aspire,
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

CHORUS ES

то 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-house.

Y

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

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

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,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly ?

Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE