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Describe the groves beneath, the sylvan bowers,
The river's winding train,and great Augusta's towers.
But see!a living prospect drawing near
At once transports, and raises awful fear!
Love's favourite band, selected to maintain
His choicest triumphs, and support his reign.
Muse, pay thy homage here yet oh beware!
And draw the glorious scene with artful care,
For foolish praise is satire on the fair.

Behold where bright Urania does advance,
And lightens through the trees with every glance!
A careful pleasure in her air is seen;
Diana shines with such a graceful mien,
When in her darling woods she's feign'd to rove,
The chase pursuing, and avoiding love.
At flying deer the goddess boasts her aim,
But Cupid shows the nymph a nobler game.
Th' unerring shafts so various fly around,
'Tis hard to say which gives the deepest wound;
Or if with greater glory we submit,
Pierc'd by her eyes, her humour, or her wit.

See next her charming sister, young and gay, In beauty's bloom like the sweet month of May! The sportful nymph, once in the neighbouring

grove,

Surpris'd by chance the sleeping god of Love;
His head reclin'd upon a tuft of green,
And by him scatter'd lay his arrows bright and keen;
She tied his wings, and stole his wanton dart,
Then, laughing, wak'd the tyrant lord of hearts;
He smild, and said—“ "Tis well, insulting fair!
Yet how you sport with sleeping Love beware!
My loss of darts I quickly can supply,
Your looks shall triumph for Love's deity:
And though you now my feeble power disdain,
You once perhaps may feel a lover's pain."

Though Helen's form, and Cleopatra's charms,
The boast of Fame, once kindled dire alarms;
Those dazzling lights the world no more must view,
And scarce would think the bright description true,
Did not that ray of beauty, more divine,
In Mira's eyes by transmigration shine.
Her shape, her air, proportion, lovely face,
And matchless skin contend with rival grace;
And Venus' self, proud of th' officious aid,
With all her charms adorns th' illustrious maid.
But hark!what more than mortal sounds are
these!

Be still, ye whispering winds, and moving trees!
A second Mira does all hearts surprise,

At once victorious with her voice and eyes.
Her eyes alone can tenderest love inspire,
Her heavenly voice improves the young desire.
So western gales in fragrant gardens play
On buds produc'd by the sun's quickening ray,
And spread them into life, and gently chide their
stay.

We court that skill, by which we're sure to die;
The modest fair would fain our suit deny,
And sings unwillingly with trembling fear,
As if concern'd our ruin is so near;

So generous victors softest pity know,
And with reluctance strike the fatal blow.
Engaging Cynthia's arm'd with every grace;
Her lovely mind shines cheerful through her face,
A sacred lamp in a fair crystal case.
Not Venus star, the brightest of the sphere,
Smiles so serene, or casts a light so clear.
O happy brother of this wondrous fair!
The best of sisters well deserves thy care;

Her sighing lovers, who in crowds adore,
Would wish thy place, did they not wish for more.
What angels are, when we desire to know,
We form a thought by such as she below,
And thence conclude they're bright beyond compare,
Compos'd of all that's good, and all that's fair.
There yet remains unnam'd a dazzling throng
Of nymphs, who to these happy shades belong.
O Venus! lovely queen of soft desires!
For ever dwell where such supply thy fires!
May Virtue still with Beauty share the sway,
And the glad world with willing zeal obey!

TO MOLINDA.

TH' inspiring Muses and the god of Love,

Which most should grace the fair Molinda strove: Love arm'd her with his bow and keenest darts, The Muses more enrich'd her mind with arts. Though Greece in shining temples heretofore The ancients thought no single goddess fit, Did Venus and Minerva's powers adore, To reign at once o'er Beauty and o'er Wit; Each was a separate claim; till now we find From hence, when at the court, the park, the play, The different titles in Molinda join'd. She gilds the evening, or improves the day, All eyes regard her with transporting fire, One sex with envy burns, and one with fierce desire: But when withdrawn from public show and noise, In silent works her fancy she employs, A smiling train of Arts around her stand, And court improvement from her curious hand. She, their bright patroness, o'er all presides, And with like skill the pen and needle guides; By this we see gay silken landscapes wrought, Whether her voice in tuneful airs she moves, By that, the landscape of a beauteous thought: Or cuts dissembled flowers and paper groves, Her voice transports the ear with soft delight, Her flowers and groves surprise the ravish'd sight: Which ev'n to Nature's wonders we prefer; All but that wonder Nature form'd in her.

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

IN THE COUNTRY.

WHILST thou art happy in a blest retreat,
And free from care dost rural songs repeat,
Whilst fragrant air fans thy poetic fire,
And pleasant groves with sprightly notes inspire,
(Groves whose recesses and refreshing shade
Indulge th' invention, and the judgment aid)
I, midst the smoke and clamours of the town,
That choke my Muse, and weigh my fancy down,
Pass my unactive hours;-

In such an air, how can soft numbers flow,
Or in such soil the sacred laurel grow?
All we can boast of the poetic fire,

Are but some sparks that soon as born expire.

Hail happy Woods! harbours of Peace and Joy! Where no black cares the mind's repose destroy! Where grateful Silence unmolested reigns, Assists the Muse, and quickens all her strains,

Such were the scenes of our first parents' love,
In Eden's groves with equal flames they strove,
While warbling birds, soft whispering breaths of
wind,

And murmuring streams, to grace their nuptials
join'd.

All nature smil'd; the plains were fresh and green,
Unstain'd the fountains, and the heavens serene.
Ye blest remains of that illustrious age!
Delightful Springs and Woods!-

Might I with you my peaceful days live o'er,
You, and my friend, whose absence I deplore,
Calm as a gentle brook's unruffled tide
Should the delicious flowing minutes glide;
Discharg'd of care, on unfrequented plains,
We'd sing of rural joys in rural strains.

No false corrupt delights our thoughts should move,
But joys of friendship, poetry, and love.
While others fondly feed ambition's fire,
And to the top of human state aspire,
That from their airy eminence they may
With pride and scorn th' inferior world survey,
Here we should dwell obscure, yet happier far than
they.

VERSES PRESENTED TO A LADY,
WITH A DRAWING (BY THE AUTHOR) OF CUPID.

WHEN generous Dido in disguise caress'd
This god, and fondly clasp'd him to her breast,
Soon the sly urchin storm'd her tender heart,
And amorous flames dispers'd through every part.
In vain she strove to check the new-born fire,
It scorn'd her weak essays, and rose the higher:
In vain from feasts and balls relief she sought,
The Trojan youth alone employ'd her thought:
Yet Fate oppos'd her unrewarded care;
Forsaken, scorn'd, she perish'd in despair.

No such event, fair nymph, you need to fear,
Smiles, without darts, alone attend him here;
Weak and unarm'd, not able to surprise,
He waits for influence from your conquering eyes.
Heaven change the omen, then; and may this prove
A happy prelude to successful love!

The poison'd shaft, the Parthian bow, and spear
Like that the warlike Moor is wont to wield,
Which, pois'd and guided, from his car
He hurls impetuous through the field;

In vain you lace the helm, and heave in vain the
shield:

He's only safe, whose armour of defence
Is adamantine innocence.

If o'er the steepy Alps he go,
Vast mountains of eternal snow,

Or where fam'd Ganges and Hydaspes flow;
If o'er parch'd Libya's desert land,
Where threatening from afar
Th' affrighted traveller

Encounters moving hills of sand;

No sense of danger can disturb his rest;
He fears no human force, nor savage beast;
Impenetrable courage steels his manly breast.

Thus, late within the Sabine grove,
While free from care, and full of love,
I raise my tuneful voice, and stray
Regardless of myself and way,

A grizly wolf, with glaring eye,

View'd me unarm'd, yet pass'd unhurtful by.
A fiercer monster ne'er, in quest of food,
Apulian forests did molest;

Numidia never saw a more prodigious beast;
Numidia, mother of the yellow brood,

Where the stern lion shakes his knotted mane, And roars aloud for prey, and scours the spacious plain.

Place me where no soft breeze of summer wind
Did e'er the stiffen'd soil unbind,
Where no refreshing warmth e'er durst invade,
But Winter holds his unmolested seat,
In all his hoary robes array'd,

[beat.

And rattling storms of hail, and noisy tempestɛ
Place me beneath the scorching blaze
Of the fierce Sun's immediate rays,
Where house or cottage ne'er were seen,
Nor rooted plant or tree, nor springing green;
Yet, lovely Lalage, my generous flame
Shall ne'er expire; I'll boldly sing of thee,
Charm'd with the music of thy name,
And guarded by the gods of Love and Poetry.

HORACE,

BOOK I. ODE XXII.

Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus,

Non get Mauri jaculis neque arcu, &c.

IMITATED IN PARAPHRASE.

HENCE, slavish Fear! thy Stygian wings display!
Thou ugly fiend of Hell, away!

Wrapp'd in thick clouds, and shades of night,
To conscious souls direct thy flight!
There brood on guilt, fix there a loath'd embrace,
And propagate vain terrours, frights,
Dreams, goblins, and imagin'd sprights,
Thy visionary tribe, thy black and monstrous race.
Go, haunt the slave that stains his hands in gore!
Possess the perjur'd mind, and rack the usurer more,
Than his oppression did the poor before.

Vainly, you feeble wretches, you prepare
The glittering forgery of war:

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The wandering sailors, pale with fear, For thee the gods implore, When the tempestuous sea runs high, And when, through all the dark benighted sky, No friendly moon or stars appear To guide their steerage to the shore: For thee the weary soldier prays; Furious in fight, the sons of Thrace, And Medes, that wear majestic by their side A full-charg'd quiver's decent pride, Gladly with thee would pass inglorious days, Renounce the warrior's tempting praise, And buy thee, if thou might'st be sold, With gems, and purple vests, and stores of plunder'd gold.

But neither boundless wealth, nor guards that wait
Around the consul's honour'd gate,

Nor anti-chambers with attendants fill'd,
The mind's unhappy tumults can abate,
Or banish sullen cares, that fly
Across the gilded rooms of state,

And their foul nests, like swallows, build

Close to the palace-roofs, and towers that pierce the sky.

Much less will Nature's modest wants supply;
And happier lives the homely swain,
Who, in some cottage, far from noise,
His few paternal goods enjoys,

Nor knows the sordid lust of gain,

Nor with Fear's tormenting pain
His hovering steps destroys.

Vain man! that in a narrow space

At endless game projects the daring spear!
For short is life's uncertain race:
Then why, capricious mortal! why
Dost thou for happiness repair
To distant climates, and a foreign air?
Fool! from thyself thou canst not fly,
Thyself, the source of all thy care.

So flies the wounded stag, provok'd with pain,
Bounds o'er the spacious downs in vain;
The feather'd torment sticks within his side,
And from the smarting wound a purple tide
Marks all his way with blood, and dyes the
plain.

But swifter far is execrable Care

grassy

Than stags, or winds that through the skies Thick-driving snows and gather'd tempests bear; Pussuing Care the sailing ship out-flies, Climbs the tall vessel's painted sides; Nor leaves arm'd squadrons in the field, But with the marching horsemen rides,

And dwells alike in courts and camps, and makes all places yield.

Then, since no state's completely blest,
Let's learn the bitter to allay
With gentle mirth, and wisely gay
Enjoy at least the present day,
And leave to Fate the rest.
Nor with vain fear of ills to come
Anticipate th' appointed doom.
Soon did Achilles quit the stage,
The hero fell by sudden death;
While Tithon to a tedious wasting age

Drew his protracted breath.
And thus old partial Time, my friend,
Perhaps, unask'd, to worthless me
Those hours of lengthen'd life may lend,
Which he'll refuse to thee.

Thee shining wealth and plenteous joys surround, And, all thy fruitful fields around, Unnumber'd herds of cattle stray.

Thy harness'd steeds with sprightly voice Make neighbouring vales and hills rejoice, While smoothly thy gay chariot flies o'er the swift measur'd way.

To me the stars, with less profusion kind,
An humble fortune have assign'd,
And no untuneful lyric vein,
But a sincere contented mind,
That can the vile malignant crowd disdain.

THE BIRTH OF THE ROSE.
FROM THE FRENCH.

ONCE, on a solemn festal day
Held by th' immortals in the skies,
Flora had summon'd all the deities
That rule o'er gardens, or survey

The birth of greens and springing flowers,
And thus address'd the genial powers.

"Ye shining Graces of my courtly train,
The cause of this assembly know!
In sovereign majesty I reign
O'er the gay flowery universe below;
Yet, my increasing glory to maintain,
A queen I'll choose with spotless honour fair,
The delegated crown to wear.

Let me your counsel and assistance ask,
T'accomplish this momentous task."

The deities that stood around,

At first return'd a murmuring sound;
Then said," Fair goddess, do you know
The factious feuds this must create,
What jealous rage and mutual hate
Among the rival flowers will grow?
The vilest thistle that infests the plain
Will think his tawdry painted pride
Deserves the crown; and, if deny'd,
Perhaps with traitor-plots, molest your reign."
"Vain are your fears, Flora reply'd,

"Tis fix'd-and hear how I'll the cause decide.

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Th' applauding deities with pleasure heard,
And for the grateful work prepar'd.
A busy face the god of Gardens wore;
Vertumnus of the party too,
From various sweets th' exhaling spirits drew:
While, in full canisters, Pomona bore

Of richest fruits a plenteous store;
And Vesta promis'd wondrous things to do.
Gay Venus led a lively train

Of smiles and graces: the plump god of Wine
From clusters did the flowing nectar strain,
And fill'd large goblets with his jujce divine.
Thus charg'd, they seek the honour'd shade
Where liv'd and died the spotless maid.
On a soft couch of turf the body lay;
Th' approaching deities press'd all around,
Prepar'd the sacred rites to pay

In silence, and with awe profound.
Flora thrice bow'd, and thus was heard to pray.
"Jove! mighty Jove! whom all adore,
Exert thy great creative power!
Let this fair corpse be mortal clay no more;
Transform it to a tree, to bear a beauteous flower"—
Scarce had the goddess spoke, when see!
The nymph's extended limbs the form of branches

wear:

Behold the wondrous change, the fragrant tree! To leaves was turn'd her flowing hair; And rich diffus'd perfumes regal'd the wanton air. Heavens! what new charm, what sudden light, Improves the grot, and entertains the sight! A sprouting bud begins the tree t' adorn; The large the sweet vermilion flower is born! The goddess thrice on the fair infant breath'd, To spread it into life, and to convey The fragrant soul, and every charm bequeath'd To make the vegetable princess gay: Then kiss'd it thrice: the general silence broke, And thus in loud rejoicing accents spoke. "Ye flowers at my command attendant here, Pay homage, and your sovereign Rose revere! No sorrow on your drooping leaves be seen; Let all be proud of such a queen, So fit the floral crown to wear,

To glorify the day, and grace the youthful year." Thus speaking, she the new-born favourite The transformation was complete; [crown'd, The deities with songs the queen of flowers did greet: Soft flutes and tuneful harps were heard to sound; While now to Heaven the well-pleas'd goddess flies With her bright train, and reascends the skies.

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words, it may be proper to acquaint the public, that they are the first essays of this kind, and were written as an experiment of introducing a sort of composition, which had never been naturalized in our language. Those who are affectedly partial to the Italian tongue will scarce allow music to speak any other; but if reason may be admitted to have any share in these entertainments, nothing is more necessary than that the words should be understood, without which the end of vocal music is lost. The want of this occasions a common complaint, and is the chief, if not the only reason, that the best works of Scarlati and other Italians, except those performed in operas, are generally but little known or regarded here. Besides, it may be observed, without any dishonour to a language which has been adorned by some writers of excellent genius, and was the first among the moderns in which the art of poetry was revived and brought to any perfection, that in the great number of their operas, serenatas, and cantatas, the words are often much inferior to the composition; and though, by their abounding with vowels, they have an inimitable aptness and facility for notes, the writers for music have not always made the best use of this advantage, or seem to, have relied on it so much as to have regarded little else; so that Mr. Waller's remark on another occasion may be frequently applied to

them:

Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.

Yet so great is the force of sounds well chosen and skilfully executed, that, as they can hide indifferent sense, and a kind of associated pleasure arises from the words though they are but mean; so the impression cannot fail of being in proportion much greater, when the thoughts are natural and proper, and the expressions unaffected and agreeable.

Since, therefore, the English language, though inferior in smoothness, has been found not incapable of harmony, nothing would perhaps be wanting towards introducing the most elegant style of music, in a nation which has given such generous encouragements to it, if our best poets would sometimes assist this design, and make it their diversion to improve a sort of verse, in regular measures, purposely fitted for music, and which, of all the modern kinds, seems to be the only one that can now properly be called lyrics.

It cannot but be observed on this occasion, that since poetry and music are so nearly allied, it is a misfortune that those who excel in one are often perfect strangers to the other. If, therefore, a better correspondence were settled between the two sister arts, they would probably contribute to each other's improvement. The expressions of harmony, cadence, and a good ear, which are said to be so necessary in poetry, being all borrowed from music, show at least, if they signify any thing, that it would be no improper help for a poet to understand more than the metaphorical sense of them. And on the other hand, a composer can never judge where to lay the accent of his music, who does not know, or is not made sensible, where the words have the greatest beauty and force.

There is one thing in compositions of this sort which seems a little to want explaining, and that

is the recitative music, which many people hear without pleasure, the reason of which is, perhaps, that they have a mistaken notion of it. They are accustomed to think that all music should be air; and being disappointed of what they expect, they lose the beauty that is in it of a different kind. It may be proper to observe, therefore, that the recitative style in composition is founded on that variety of accent which pleases in the pronunciation of a good orator, with as little deviation from it as possible. The different tones of the voice, in astonishment, joy, sorrow, rage, tenderness in affirmations, apostrophes, interrogations, and all the varieties of speech, make a sort of natural music, which is very agreeable; and this is what is intended to be imitated, with some helps by the composer, but without approaching to what we call a tune or air; so that it is but a kind of improved elocution or pronouncing the words in musical cadences, and is indeed wholly at the mercy of the performer to make it agreeable or not, according to his skill or ignorance, like the reading of verse, which is not every one's talent. This short accoun may possibly suffice to show how properly the recitative has a place in compositions of any length, to relieve the ear with a variety, and to introduce the airs with the greater advantage.

As to Mr. Pepusch's success in these compositions, I am not at liberty to say any more than that he has, I think,' very naturally expressed the sense of the words. He is desirous the public should be informed, that they are not only the first he has attempted in English, but the first of any of his works published by himself; and as he wholly submits them to the judgment of the lovers of this art, it will be a pleasure to him to find, that his endeavours to promote the composing of music in the English language, after a new model, are favourably accepted.

CANTATA I.

ON ENGLISH BEAUTY.

RECITATIVE.

WHEN Beauty's goddess from the ocean sprung,
Ascending, o'er the waves she cast a smile
On fair Britannia's happy isle,

And rais'd her tuneful voice, and thus she sung.

AIR.

Hail, Britannia! hail to thee,
Fairest island of the sea!
Thou my favourite land shalt be.
Cyprus too shall own my sway,

And dedicate to me its groves;
Yet Venus and her train of Loves
Will with happier Britain stay.
Hail, Britannia! hail to thee,
Fairest island of the sea!

Thou my favourite land shalt be.

RECITATIVE.

Britannia heard the notes diffusing wide,
And saw the power whom gods and men adore,
Approaching nearer with the tide,
And in a rapture loudly cry'd,

O welcome! welcome to my shore!

AIR.

Lovely isle! so richly blest!
Beauty's palm is thine confess'd.
Thy daughters all the world outshine,
Nor Venus' self is so divine.
Lovely isle! so richly blest!
Beauty's palm is thine confess'd

CANTATA II.

ALEXIS.

RECITATIVE.

SEE,-from the silent grove Alexis flies, And seeks with every pleasing art To ease the pain, which lovely eyes Created in his heart.

To shining theatres he now repairs, Where thus to Music's power the swain address'd his To learn Camilla's moving airs,

prayers.

AIR.

Charming sounds! that sweetly languish, Music, O compose my anguish!

Every passion yields to thee; Phoebus quickly then relieve me: Cupid shall no more deceive me; I'll to sprightlier joys be free.

RECITATIVE.

Apollo heard the foolish swain; He knew, when Daphne once he lov'd, How weak, t'assuage an amorous pain, His own harmonious art had prov'd, And all his healing herbs how vain. Then thus he strikes the speaking strings, Preluding to his voice, and sings.

AIR.

Sounds, though charming, can't relieve thee; Do not, shepherd, then deceive thee,

Music is the voice of Love.

If the tender maid believe thee,
Soft relenting,

Kind consenting,

Will alone thy pain remove.

CANTATA III.

ON THE SPRING.

WITH VIOLINS.

AIR.

FRAGRANT Flora! haste, appear,
Goddess of the youthful Year!
Zephyr gently courts thee now!
On thy buds of roses playing,
All thy breathing sweets displaying,
Hark, his amorous breezes blow!
Fragrant Flora! haste, appear!
Goddess of the youthful Year!

Zephyr gently courts thee now.

RECITATIVE.

Thus on a fruitful hill, in the fair bloom of spring.
The tuneful Colinet, his voice did raise,
The vales remurmur'd with his lays,
And listening birds hung hovering on the wing,
In whispering sighs soft Zephyr by him flew,
While thus the shepherd did his song renew.

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