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V.

By the ftreams that ever flow;
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th'Elysian flow'rs;

By thofe happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,
Or Amaranthine bow'rs;
By the heroes' armed fhades,
Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove;

Reftore, reftore Eurydice to life :

Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!

He fung, and hell confented
To hear the Poet's prayer;
Stern Proferpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus Song could prevail
O'er Death, and o'er hell ;
A conqueft how hard, and how glorious!
Though Fate had faft bound her
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet Mufic and Love were victorious.

VI.

But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again the falls, again the dies, the dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal Sifters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.

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Now, under hanging mountains,
Befide 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 loft!
Now with Furies furrounded,
Defpairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,.
Amidft Rhodope's fnows.

See, wild as the winds, o'er the defert he flies ! Hark! Hamus refounds with the Bacchanals' criesAh, fee, he dies!.

Yet e'en in death Eurydice he fung,

Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue;:
Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

VII.

Mufic the fierceft grief can charm,
And Fate's feverest rage disarm;

Mufic can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please;
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the blifs above.

This the divine Cecilia found,.

And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found.

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When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th'immortal pow'rs incline their ear ;
Borne on the fwelling notes our fouls afpire,
While folemn 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 fhade from Hell,
Her's lift the foul to Heav'n.

VOL. I. p. 59•.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

AN ODE.

I.

VITAL fpark of heav'nly flame !

Quit, oh quit this mortal frame :
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying;
Oh, the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature! cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

II.

Hark! they whifper; Angels fay,

Sifter Spirit, come away!

What is this absorbs me quite,

Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,

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Drowns

Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?

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The world recedes; it difappears!
Heav'n 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 fting?

VOL. I. p. 68.

CRITICIS M.

'TIS hard to fay, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging ill;
But, of the two, lefs dang'rous is th❜offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our fense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten cenfure wrong, for one who writes amifs.
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in profe.
"Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go juft alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare :

Both muft alike from Heav'n derive their light;
These born to judge, as well as those to write.

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Let

1

Let fuch teach others, who themfelves excel,
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind: Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light; The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.

}

But as the flightest sketch, if juftly trac'd,
Is by ill-colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by falfe learning is good-sense defac'd:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
In fearch of wit these lofe their common-sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence.
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's fpite.

All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpite,

There are who judge ftill worfe than he can write,
Some have, at firft, for Wits, then Poets past,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at
laft.

Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horfe nor ass.
Thofe half-learn'd Witlings, num'rous in our Ifle
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;

Unfinish'd

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