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! Hamus 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.
7*

VOL. III.

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 powers incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And angels lean from Heaven to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater power is giv'n:
His numbers rais'd a shade from Hell,
Her's lift the soul to Heav'n.

Forsake not thou the vocal choir,

Their breasts revisit with thy genial fire.

Pope

TO GENIUS.

THOU child of Nature, Genius strong,
Thou master of the poet's song,
Before whose light, art's dim and feeble ray
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day;
Thou lov'st to steal along the secret shade,
Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Awaits thee with her thousand charins,
And revels in thy wanton arms;
She to thy bed in days of yore,

The sweetly warbling Shakspeare bore;
Whom every muse endow'd with every skill,
And dipt him in that sacred rill,

Whose silver streams flow musical along,
Where Phoebus' hallow'd mount resounds with

raptur'd song.

Else vain the studied sounds of mimic art,
Tickle the ear, but come not near the heart.
Vain every phrase in curious order set,
On each side leaning on the (stop-gap) epithet.
Vain the quick rhyme still tinkling in the close,
While pure description shines in measur'd prose.
Thou bear'st aloof, and look'st with high dis-
Upon the dull mechanic train ;
[dain,
Whose nervous strains flag on in languid tone,
Lifeless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowsy drone.

No longer now thy altars blaze, No poet offers up his lays; Inspir'd with energy divine, To worship at thy sacred shrine, Since Taste* with absolute domain, Extending wide her leaden reign, Kills with her melancholy shade The blooming scions of fair Fancy's tree; Which erst full wantonly have stray'd In many a wreath of richest poesy. For when the oak denies her stay, The creeping ivy winds her humble way; No more she twists her branches round, But drags her feeble stem along the barren ground.

Where then shall exil'd Genius go?
Since only those the laurel claim,
And boast them of the poet's name,
Whose sober rhymes in even tenor flow;

Who prey on words, and all their flowerets cull, Coldly correct, and regularly dull.

* By taste, is here meant the modern affectation of it.

Why sleep the sons of Genius now?
Why, Wartons, rests the lyre unstrung?
And thou,* bless'd bard! around whose sacred

brow

Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung,
Arise, and snatch the majesty of song
From Dulness' servile tribe, and Art's unhallow'd

throng.

Lloyd.

TO MEMORY, 1748.

O MEMORY! celestial maid!

Who glean'st the flowerets cropp'd by Time, And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new and Lesbia kind.

And bring that garland to my sight

With which my favour'd crook she bound;
And bring that wreath of roses bright

Which then my festive temples crown'd;
And to my raptur'd ear convey
The gentle things she deign'd to say.

And sketch with care the Muses' bower,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide,

Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side, If so thou may'st those hours prolong, When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.

Dr. Akenside.

The song it 'vails not to recite

But, sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright Than other banks, than other streains; Or, by thy softening pencil shown, Assume they beauties not their own?

And paint that sweetly-vacant scene

When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breath'd in verse one cordial vow, That nothing should my soul inspire But friendship warm and love entire.

Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends, As some fond lover, robb'd of sight,

On thy expressive power depends, Nor would exchange thy glowing lines To live the lord of all that shines.

But let me chase those vows away

Which at Ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid : Oh! from my breast that season rase, And bring my childhood in its place.

Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,

And bring the hobby I bestrode,
When, pleas'd, in many a sportive ring
Around the room I jovial rode;
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.