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Just so, my heart-But see-Ah no! She smiles I will not, cannot go.

AIR.

Love and the Graces smiling, In Myra's eyes beguiling,

Again their charms recover. Would you secure your duty, Let kindness aid your beauty, Ye fair, to sooth the lover.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST;

OR,

THE POWER OF MUSIC:

AN ODE IN HOnour of St. CECILIA'S DAY. BY MR. DRYDEN.

ALTERED FOR MUSIC BY MR, HUGHES,

RECITATIVE,

"Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Phillip's warlike son;
Aloft in awful state,
The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were plac'd around;

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,

AIR.

Lovely Thais by his side

Blooming sat in beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave deserves the fair!

RECITATIVE.

Timotheus plac'd on high,
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre;
Trembling the notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly jovs inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above;
(Such is the power of nighty Love!)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of

the world.

The listening crowd adore the lofty sound, A present deity, they shout around:

A present deity, the echoing roofs rebound;

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While, loud with conquest and with wine, His jolly troop around him reel'd along, And taught the vocal skies to join In this applauding song.

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With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow,
The mighty master sunil'd to see
That Love was in the next degree,
'Twas but a kindred sound to move:
For Pity melts the mind to Love.
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures,

AIR. WITH FLUTES,
War is toil and trouble,
Honour is an airy bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the world be worth thy winning,

- Think, O think it, worth enjoying;
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee,

RECITATIVE.

The prince unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair,

Who caus'd his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

DUETTO.

1. Phœbus, patron of the lyre, 2. Cupid, god of soft desire, 1. Cupid, god of soft desire,

2. Phoebus, patron of the lyre,

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Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

And thy bright eye is brighter far
Than any planet, any star.
Thy sordid way of life despise,
Above thy slavery, Silvia, rise;
Display thy beauteous form and mien,
And grow a goddess, or a queen.

CONSTANTIA, see, thy faithful slave
Dies of the wound thy beauty gave!
Ah! gentle nymph, no longer try
From fond pursuing Love to fly.
Thy pity to my love impart,
Pity my bleeding aching heart,
Regard my sighs and flowing tears,
And with a smile remove my fears.

A wedded wife if thou would'st be,
By sacred Hymen join'd to me,
Ere yet the western Sun decline,
My hand and heart shall both be thine.

THRICE lov'd Constantia, heavenly fair, For thee a servant's form I wear;

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, Though blest with wealth, and nobly born,

And unbury'd remain,

Inglorious on the plain.

Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes. And glittering temples of their hostile gods!

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For thee, both wealth and birth I scorn:
Trust me, fair maid, my constant flame
For ever will remain the same;
My love, that ne'er will cease, my love
Shall equal to thy beauty prove.

TRANSLATED

FROM PERSIAN VERSES.

ALLUDING TO THE CUSTOM OF WOMEN BEING BURIED
WITH
WITH THEIR
THEIR HUSBANDS, AND MEN
WIVES.

ETERNAL are the chains which here

The generous souls of lovers bind, When Hymen joins our hands, we swear To be for ever true and kind;

And when, by Death, the fair are snatch'd away,
Lest we our solemn vows should break,

In the same grave our living corpse we lay,
And willing the same fate partake,

ANOTHER.

My dearest spouse, that thou and I

May shun the fear which first shall die, Clasp'd in each other's arms we'll live, Alike consum'd in Love's soft fire, That neither may at last survive, But gentle both at once expire.

SONGS.

THY origin's divine, I see,
Of mortal race thou canst not be;
Thy lip a ruby lustre shows;

Thy purple cheek outshines the rose,

ON ARQUEÄNASSA OF COLOPHOS. ARQUEANASSA'S charms inspire Within my breast a lover's fire; Age, its feeble spite displaying, Vainly wrinkles all her face, Cupids, in each wrinkle playing, Charm my eyes with lasting grace:

But before old Time pursued her,
Ere he sunk these little caves,
How I pity those who view'd her,
And in youth were made her slaves!

ON FULVIA, THE WIFE OF ANTHONY,

FROM THE LATIN OF AUGUSTUS CÆSAR.

WHILE from his consort false Antonius flies,
And doats on Glaphyra's far brighter eyes,
Fulvia, provok'd, her female arts prepares,
Reprisals seeks, and spreads for me her snares.
"The husband's false."-But why must I endure
This nauseous plague, and her revenge procure?
What though she ask?-How happy were my dooin,
Should all the discontented wives of Rome
Repair in crowds to me, when scorn'd at home!
"Tis war," she says "if I refuse her charms :"
Let's think-she's ugly.-Trumpets,sound to arms!

HUDIBRAS IMITATED.

WRITTEN IN 1710.

BLESSED time of reformation,

That's now beginning through the nation!
The Jacks bawl loud for church triumphant,
And swear all Whigs shall kiss the rump on't.
See how they draw the beastly rabble
With zeal and noises formidable,
And make all cries about the town
Join notes to roar fanatics down!
As bigots give the sign about,

They stretch their throats with hideous shout.
Black tinkers bawl aloud "to settle
"Church privilege"-for "mending kettle."
Each sow-gelder that blows his horn,
Cries out "to have dissenters sworn.'"
The oyster-wenches lock their fish up,
no presbyterian bishop!

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And cry
The mouse-trap men lay save-alls by,
And 'gainst "low-church men" loudly cry;
A creature of amphibious nature,
That trims betwixt the land and water,
And leaves his mother in the lurch,

To side with rebels 'gainst the church!
Some cry for " penal laws," instead
Of" pudding-pies, and gingerbread :"
And some, for "brooms, old boots, and shoes,"
Roar out,
"God bless our commons' house!"
Some bawl" the votes" about the town,
And wish they'd "vote dissenters down."
Instead of " kitchen-stuff," some cry,
"Confound the late whig-ministry!"
And some, for " chairs to mend,"
any
The commons' late address commend.
Some for "old gowns for china ware,"
Exclaim against "extempore prayer:"
And some for "old suits, cloaks, or coats,"
Cry, "D-n your preachers without notes!"
He that cries " coney-skins, or onions,"
Blames" toleration of opinions,"
Blue-apron whores, that sit with furmety,
Rail at " occasional conformity."
Instead of "cucumbers to pickle,"
Some cry aloud, no conventicle!"

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INTRODUCTION TO THE FOLLOWING ODE.

Horat.

THAT the praises of the Author of Nature, which is the fittest subject for the sublime way of writing, was the most ancient use of poetry, cannot be learned from a more proper instance (next to examples of holy writ) than from the Greck fragments of Orpheus; a relique of great antiquity: they contain several verses concerning God, and his making and governing the universe; which, though imperfect, have many noble hints and lofty expressions. Yet, whether these verses were indeed written by that celebrated father of poetry and music, who preceded Homer, or by Onomacritus, who lived about the time of Pisistratus, and only contain some of the doctrines of Orpheus, is a question of little use or importance.

A large paraphrase of these in French verse has been prefixed to the translation of Phocylides, but in a flat style, much inferior to the design. The following ode, with many alterations and additions proper to a modern poem, is attempted upon the same model, in a language which, having stronger sinews than the French, is, by the confession of their best critic, Rapin, more capable of sustaining great subjects.

AN

ODE TO THE CREATOR OF THE WORLD,

O MUSE unfeign'd! O true celestial fire,
Brighter than that which rules the day,
Descend! a mortal tongue inspire
To sing some great immortal lay!

Begin, and strike aloud the consecrated lyre!
Hence, yc profane! be far away!

Hence, all ye impious slaves, that bow
To idol lusts, or altars raise,

And to false heroes give fantastic praise! And hence, ye gods, who to a crime your spurious beings owe!

But hear, O Heaven, and Earth, and Seas profound!

Hear, ye fathom'd Deeps below,

And let your echoing vaults repeat the sound;
Let Nature, trembling all around,
Attend her Master's awful name,

From whom Heaven, Earth, and Seas, and all the wide Creation came.

He spoke the great command; and Light, Heaven's eldest-born and fairest child, Flash'd in the lowering face of ancient Night, And, pleas'd with its own birth, serenely smil'd. The sons of Morning, on the wing, Hovering in choirs, his praises sung, When, from the unbounded vacuous space, A beauteous rising World they saw, When Nature show'd her yet unfinish'd face, And Motion took th' establish'd law To roll the various globes on high; When Time was taught his infant wings to try, And from the barrier sprung to his appointed

race.

Supreme, Almighty, still the same!
'Tis he, the great inspiring Mind,
That animates and moves this universal frame,
Present at once in all, and by no place confin'd.

Not Heaven itself can bound his sway;
Beyond th' untravell❜d limits of the sky,
Invisible to mortal eye,

He dwells in uncreated day.
Without beginning, without end; 'tis he
That fills th' unmeasur'd growing orb of vast im-
mensity.

What power but his can rule the changeful Main, And wake the sleeping Storm, or its loud rage restrain?

When Winds their gather'd forces try,
And the chaf'd Ocean proudly swells in vain,
His voice reclaims th' impetuous roar;
In murmuring tides th' abated billows fly,
And the spent tempest dies upon the shore.
The meteor world' is his, Heaven's wintry store,
The moulded hail, the feather'd snow;
The summer breeze, the soft refreshing shower,
The loose divided cloud, and many-colour'd bow ;
The crooked lightning darts around,
His sovereign orders to fulfil;
The shooting flame obeys th' Eternal will,
Launch'd from his hand, instructed where to kill,
Or rive the mountain oak, or blast th' unshelter'd
ground.

Yet, pleas'd to bless, indulgent to supply,
He, with a father's tender care,

Supports the numerous family

That peoples earth, and sea, and air.

From Nature's giant race, th' enormous elephant, Down to the insect worm and creeping ant;

From th' eagle, sovereign of the sky,

To each inferior feather'd brood;
From crowns and purple majesty,
To humble shepherds on the plain,

His hand unseen, divides to all their food,
And the whole world of life sustains.

At one wide view his eye surveys

His works, in every distant clime; He shifts the seasons, months, and days, The short-liv'd offspring of revolving Time; By turns they die, by turns are born. Now cheerful Spring the circle leads, And strows with flowers the smiling meads; Gay Summer next, whom russet robes adorn, And waving fields of yellow corn;

Then Autumn, who with lavish stores the lap of
Nature spreads;

Decrepit Winter, laggard in the dance,
(Like feeble Age oppress'd with pain)
A heavy season does maintain,
With driving snows, and winds, and rain;
Till Spring, recruited to advance,
The various year rolls round again.

But who, thou great Ador'd! who can withstand
The terrours of thy lifted hand,

When, long provok'd, thy wrath awakes, And conscious Nature to her centre shakes? Rais'd by thy voice, the thunder flies, Hurling pale Fear and wild Confusion round, How dreadful is th' inimitable sound,

The shock of Earth and Seas, and labour of the Skies!

Then where's Ambition's haughty crest?
Where the gay head of wanton Pride?
See! tyrants fall, and wish the opening ground
Would take them quick to shades of rest,
And in their common parent's breast,
From thee, their bury'd forms for ever hide!
In vain for all the elements conspire,

The shatter'd Earth, the rushing Sea,
Tempestuous Air, and raging Fire,
To punish vile mankind, and fight for thee;
Nor Death itself can intercept the blow,
Eternal is the guilt, and without end the woe.

O Cyrus! Alexander! Julius! all

Ye mighty Lords, that ever rul'd this ball!
Once gods of Earth, the living destinies,
That made a hundred nations bow!
Where's your extent of empire now!
Say, where preserv'd your phantom Glory lies!
Can brass the fleeting thing secure?
Enshrin'd in temples does it stay?

Or in huge amphitheatres endure
The rage of rolling Time, and scorn decay?
Ah, no! the mouldering monuments of Fame
Your vain deluded hopes betray,
Nor show th' ambitious founder's name,
Mix'd with yourselves in the same mass of clay.

Proceed, my Muse! Time's wasting thread pursuc,
And see, at last, th' unravell'd clue,
When cities sink, and kingdoms are no more,
And weary Nature shall her work give o'er.
Behold th' Almighty Judge on high!

See in his hand the book of Fate!

Myriads of spirits fill the sky

T'attend, with dread solemnity,

The World's last scene, and Time's concluding

date.

The feeble race of short-liv'd Vanity,

And sickly Pomp, at once shall die!

Foul Guilt to midnight caves will shrink away,
Look back, and tremble in her flight,
And curse at Heaven's pursuing light,
Surrounded with the vengeance of that day.

How will you then, ye impious, 'scape your doom, Self-judg'd, abandon'd, overcome?

Your clouds of painted bliss shali melt before your sight.

Yet shall you not the giddy chase refrain,

Nor hope more solid bliss t' obtain,
Nor once repeat the joys you knew before;
But sigh, a long eternity of pain,

Tost in an ocean of desire, yet never find a shore.
But see where the mild Sovereign sits prepar'd
His better subjects to reward!

Where am I now! what power divine Transports me! what immortal splendours shine' Torrents of glory that oppress the sight! What joys, celestial King! thy throne surround! The Sun, who, with thy borrow'd beams so bright, Sees not his peer in all the starry round, Would here, diminish'd, fade away, Like his pale sister of the night, When she resigns her delegated light, Lost in the blaze of day.

Here wonder only can take place;-

Then, Muse, th' adventurous flight forbear! These mystic scenes thou canst no farther trace; Hope may some boundless future bliss embrace, But what, or when, or how, or where, Are mazes all, which Fancy runs in vain; Nor can the narrow cells of human brain The vast immeasurable thought contain.

TO MR. ADDISON,

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF CATO.

THOUGH Cato shines in Virgil's epic song,
Prescribing laws among th' Elysian throng;
Though Lucan's verse, exalted by his name,
O'er gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame;
The Roman stage did ne'er his image see,
Drawn at full length; a task reserv'd for thee.
By thee we view the finish'd figure rise,
And awful march before our ravish'd eyes;
We hear his voice, asserting Virtue's cause;
His fate, renew'd, our deep attention draws,
Excites, by turns, our various hopes and fears,
And all the patriot in thy scene appears.

On Tyber's bank thy thought was first inspir'd;
'Twas there, to some indulgent grove retir'd,
Rome's ancient fortunes rolling in thy mind,
Thy happy Muse this manly work design'd:
Or, in a dream, thou saw'st Rome's genius stand,
And, leading Cato in his sacred hand,
Point out th' immortal subject of thy lays,
And ask this labour to record his praise.

"Tis done-the hero lives and charms our age! While nobler morals grace the British stage. Great Shakespeare's ghost, the solemn strain to hear,

(Methinks I see the laurel'd shade appear!)
Will hover o'er the scene, and, wondering, view
His favourite Brutus rival'd thus by you.
Such Roman greatness in each action shines,
Such Roman eloquence adorns your lines,
That sure the Sibyls books this year foretold,
And in some mystic leaf was found enroll'd,
"Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Afric's shore,
Nor in her sands thy Cato's tomb explore!

When thrice six hundred times the circling Sun
His annual race shall through the Zodiac run,
An isle remote his monument shall rear,
And every generous Briton pay a tear."

ADVICE TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS INTENDED TRANSLATION OF HOMER'S ILIAD, 1714.

THOU, who with a happy genius born, Canst tuneful verse in flowing numbers turn, Crown'd on thy Windsor's plains with early bays, Be early wise, nor trust to barren praise. Blind was the bard that sung Achilles' rage, He sung, and begg'd, and curs'd th' ungiving age: If Britain his translated song would hear, First take the gold-then charm the listening ear} So shall thy father Homer smile to see

His pension paid-though late, and paid to thee.

ΤΟ

THE MEMORY OF MİLTON.

HOMER'S DESCRIPTION OF HIMSELF, UNDER THE CHA RACTER OF DEMODOCHUS THE MUSICIAN, AT THE FEAST OF KING ALCINOUS.

FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF THE ODYSSEYS.

THE Muse with transport lov'd him; yet, to fill
His various lot, she blendid good with ill;
Depriv'd him of his eyes, but did impart
The heavenly gift of song, and all the tuneful art.

TO A LADY,

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

Two shining maids this happy work displays ;
Each moves our rapture, both divide our praise
In Marcia, we her godlike father trace;
While Lucia triumphs with each softer grace.
One strikes with awe, and one gives chaste delight:
That bright as lightning, this serene as light.
Yet by the Muse the shadow'd forms were wrought,
And both are creatures of the poet's thought.

In her that animates these lines, we view
The wonder greater, the description true;
-Each living virtue, every grace combin'd,
And Marcia's worth with Lucia's sweetness join'd.
Had she been born ally'd to Cato's name,
Numidia's prince had felt a real flame;
And pouring his resistless troops from far,
With bolder deeds had turn'd the doubtful war;
Cæsar had fled before his conquering arms,
And Roman Muses sung her beauty's charms.

A FRAGMENT.

PROMISCUOUS Crowds to worthless riches born,
Thy pencil paints, 'tis true, yet paints with scorn,
Sometimes the fool, by Nature left half-made,
Mov'd by some happy instinct, asks thy aid,
To give his face to reason some pretence,
And raise his looks with supplemental sense.

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