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TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.
Altered from Shakespeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose defire these two Choruses were composed, to fupply as many, wanting in his play. They were set many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-houfe.
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
E fhades, where facred truth is fought;
In vain your guiltless laurels ftood
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
Oh heaven-born fifters! fource of art!
Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart;
To what new clime, what distant sky,
When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians spurn her duft;
And Athens rising near the pole!
Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball!
In every age, in every state!
Still, when the luft of tyrant power fucceeds,
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
OH Tyrant Love! haft thou poffeft
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and Wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.
Love, foft intruder, enters here,
But entering learns to be fincere.
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,
Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
Love's purer flames the Gods approve;
Brutus for abfent Porcia fighs,
And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes.
Spent in a fudden storm of luft,
vapour fed from wild defire,
Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
United wish, and mutual joy !
What various joys on one attend,
As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend?
Whether his hoary fire he fpies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder
Or views his smiling progeny;
What tender paffions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
Hence guilty joys, diftaftes, furmizes,
Fires that fcorch, yet dare not fhine :
ODE ON SOLITUDE.
Written when the Author was about Twelve Years old.
APPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,
Whofe trees in fummer yield him shade,
Sound fleep by night; study and ease,
Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
O D E.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL fpark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Hark! they whisper; Angels fay,
Steals my fenfes, shuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With founds feraphic ring :
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?
O Death! where is thy Sting?