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! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries--

Ah see, he 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 powers incline their ear:
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred 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 shade from hell,
Her's lift the soul to heaven.

TWO CHORUSES

TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

Altered from Shakespeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose desire these two Choruses were composed, to supply as many, wanting in his Play. They were set many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-house.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

Strophe 1.

YE shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal sages taught;
Where heavenly visions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the muses' shades.

Antistrophe 1.

Oh heaven-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, 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 shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

Strophe 2.

When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
When wild barbarians spurn her dust;

Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore
Shall cease to blush with stranger's gore:

See arts her savage sons control,

And Athere rising near the pole!

Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from the land.

Antistrophe 2.

Ye gods! what justice rules the ball!
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant are slaves.
O curs'd effects of civil hate,

In every age, in every state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

Ο

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

Semichorus.

H tyrant love! hast thou possest The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim, And arts but soften us to feel thy flame. Love, soft intruder, enters here, But entering learns to be sincere. Marcus with blushes owns he loves, And Brutus tenderly reproves. Why, virtue, dost thou blame desire, Which nature hath imprest? Why nature, dost thou soonest fire The mild and generous breast;

Chorus.

Love's purer flames the gods approve;
The gods and Brutus bend to love:

Brutus for absent Porcia sighs,

And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.

What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust;
A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wandering, self-consuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite,
And burn for ever one;
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the sun.

Semichorus.

Oh source of every social tye
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his smiling progeny;

What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With reverence, hope, and love.

Chorus.

Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises;
Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine:

Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure;
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure,
Sacred Hymen! these are thine

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

Written when the Author was about twelve
Years old.

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care

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.

Blest, 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 unlamented 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, oh quít, this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!