"Thou from oblivion shalt the hero save ;
"Shalt rife, revive, immortalize the brave.
"To thee, the Dardan Prince shall owe his fame ;-
"To thee, the Cæfars their eternal name.
“Eliza, sung by thee, with Fate shall strive,
"And long as Time in facred verse survive.
"And yet, O Muse, remains the noblest theme;
"The first of men, mature for endless fame,
"Thy future fongs fhall grace, and all thy lays,
"Thenceforth, alone fhall wait on William's praife.
"On his heroic deeds thy verse shall rise ;
"Thou fhalt diffuse the fires that he supplies.
"Through him thy fongs fhall more fublime aspire ;
"And he, through them, fhall deathless fame acquire:
"Nor Time nor Fate his glory fhall oppose,
"Or blaft the monuments the Mufe beftows."
This faid; no more remain'd. Th' ethereal hoft
Again impatient crowd the crystal coaft.
The Father, now, within his fpacious hands,
Encompass'd all the mingled mafs of feas and lands;
And, having heav'd aloft the ponderous sphere,
He launch'd the world to float in ambient air.
MRS. ARABELLA HUNT, SINGING.
ET all be hush'd, each softeft motion ceafe, Be every loud tumultuous thought at peace, And every ruder gafp of breath
Be calm, as in the arms of death.
And thou, moft fickle, moft uneafy part,
Thou restless wanderer, my heart,
Be ftill; gently, ah leave,
Thou bufy, idle thing, to heave.
Stir not a pulfe; and let my blood,
That turbulent, unruly flood,
Be foftly stay'd:
Let me be all, but my attention, dead.
Go, reft, unneceffary fprings of life,
Leave Four officious toil and ftrife;
For I would hear her voice, and try
If it be poffible to die.
ye love-fick maids and wounded fwains, And listen to her healing strains.
A wondrous balm between her lips she wears,
Of fovereign force to soften cares;
And this through every ear she can impart (By tuneful breath diffus'd) to every heart. Swiftly the gentle charmer flies,
And to the tender grief foft air applies,
Which, warbling myftic founds,
Cements the bleeding panter's wounds.
But ak! Beware of clamorous moan;
Let no unpleafing murmur, or harsh groan,.
Your flighted loves declare ;
Your very tendereft moving fighs forbear,
For even they will be too boisterous here.
Hither let nought but facred filence come,
And let all faucy praise be dumb.
And lo! Silence himself is here;
Methinks I fee the midnight god appear..
In all his downy pomp array'd,
Behold the reverend fhade:
An ancient figh he fits upon,
Whofe memory of found is long fince gone,
And purposely annihilated for his throne :
Beneath, two foft tranfparent clouds do meet,
In which he feems to fink his fofter feet.
A melancholy thought, condens'd to air,
Stol'n from a lover in despair,
Like a thin mantle, ferves to wrap
In fluid folds his vifionary shape.
A wreath of darkness round his head he wears,
Where curling mists supply the want of hairs;
While the ftill vapours, which from poppies rife,
Bedew his hoary face, and lull his eyes.
But hark! the heavenly sphere turns round,
And Silence now is drown'd
In ecstasy of found.
How on a fudden the still air is charm'd,
As if all harmony were just alarm'd!
And every foul, with transport fill'd,
Alternately is thaw'd and chill'd.
See how the heavenly choir
Come flocking to admire,
And with what speed and care
Defcending angels cull the thinneft air!
Haste then, come all th' immortal throng,
And liften to her fong;
Leave your lov'd mansions in the sky,
And hither, quickly hither fly.
Your lofs of heaven nor fhall you need to fear;
While fhe fings, 'tis heaven here.
See how they crowd, fee how the little cherubs skip! While others fit around her mouth, and fip
Sweet Hallelujahs from her lip,
Thofe lips, where in furprise of blifs they rove;
For ne'er before did angels tafte
So exquifite a feast,
Of mufic and of love.
Prepare then, ye immortal choir,
Each facred minstrel tune his lyre,
And with her voice in chorus join;
Her voice, which next to yours is most divine.
Blefs the glad earth with heavenly lays, And to that pitch th' eternal accents raise,
Which only breath infpir'd can reach,
To notes, which only she can learn, and you can teach:
While we, charm'd with the lov'd excefs,
Are wrapt in sweet forgetfulness
Of all, of all, but of the present happiness:
Wishing for ever in that state to lie,
For ever to be dying fo, yet never die.
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