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Oh take the husband, or return the wife!

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And gave him back the fair.
Thus fong could prevail


O'er death and o'er hell,

A conqueft how hard and how glorious?
Tho' fate had faft bound her

With Styx nine times round her,

Yet mufic and love were victorious.


But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes;
Again fhe falls, again fhe dies, fhe dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal fifters 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 Maanders,
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,

Amidst Rhodope's snows:


See, wild as the winds, o'er the defart he flies;
Hark! Hamus resounds with the Bacchanals cries-110
-Ah fee, he dies!

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung,

Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue,

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung.


Mufic the fierceft grief can charm,


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This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear;
Borne on the fwelling notes our fouls aspire,
While folemn airs improve the facred 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,
Hers lift the foul to heav'n.




Two CHORUS's to the
Tragedy of BRUTUS.

CHORUS of Athenians.

Strophe 1.

YE where, facrer at

E fades, where facred truth is fought;

Groves, where immortal Sages taught;
Where heav'nly visions Plato fir'd,

And Epicurus lay infpir'd!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unfpotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,

And steel now glitters in the Muses shades.

Antiftrophe 1.

Oh heav'n-born fifters! fource of art!

Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,

Moral Truth, and myftic Song!
To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?
Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?





Strophe 2.

When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians fpurn her duft;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmoft fhore
Shall cease to blush with ftranger's gore,
See Arts her favage fons controul,

And Athens rifing near the pole!

'Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land.

Antiftrophe 2.

Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,

In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!

Still, when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.





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