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But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,

While Argo saw her kindred trees

Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,

Enflam'd with glory's charms :
Each chief his sev’nfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade :

And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound

To arms, to arms, to arms!

But when thro' all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,

Love, strong as Death, the Poet led

To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear’d,
O’er all the dreary coasts !

Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,
Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghosts !
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And see! the tortur'd ghosts respire,

See, shady forms advance !
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance ! The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncursd hang list’ning round their heads.

By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O’er th’ Elysian flow'rs;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of Asphodel,

Or Amaranthine bow'rs;
By the heroes' armed shades,
Glitt'ring thro’ the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,

Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life!
Oh take the husband, or return the wife !

He sung, and hell consented

To hear the poet's prayer :
Stern Proserpine relented,
And
gave

him back the fair :

Thus song could prevail

O’er death, and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard, and how glorious !

Thoʻ fate had fast bound her

With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes :
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies !
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love,

Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,

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 pow'rs incline their ear; Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;

And Angels lean from heav'n to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,

To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n; His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,

Her's lift the soul to heav'n.

ALEXANDER's FEAST;

OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC:

AN ODE,

In honour of St. Cecilia's Day.

(DRYDEN.]

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won,

By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft, in awful state,
The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne :

His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound :

So should desert in arms be crown'd,
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

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