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The trembling transports of the lyre,

The murmur of the shell,

Why to the burst of Joy alone

Accords sweet Music's soothing tone?
Why can no bard, with magic strain,

In slumbers steep the heart of pain?
While varied tones obey your sweep,
The mild, the plaintive, and the deep,
Bends not despairing Grief to hear

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Your golden lute, with ravish'd ear?

Oh! has your sweetest shell no power to bind

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The fiercer pangs that shake the mind,

And lull the wrath, at whose command

Murder bares her gory

hand?

When flush'd with joy, the rosy throng

Weave the light dance, ye swell the song!

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Cease, ye vain warblers! cease to charm

The breast with other raptures warm! Cease! till your hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain!

SPEECH OF THE CHORUS IN THE SAME

TRAGEDY,

TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND FLYING FOR

PROTECTION TO ATHENS.

O HAGGARD queen! to Athens dost thou guide

Thy glowing chariot, steep'd in kindred gore; Or seek to hide thy damned parricide

Where Peace and Mercy dwell for ever more?

The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime,
Woos the deep silence of sequester'd bowers,
And warriors, matchless since the first of Time,

Rear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd towers!

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