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V.
By the streams that ever flow;.
By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er th'Elyfian flow'rs;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of Asphodel,

Or Am ranthine bow'rs;
By the heroes' armed shades,
Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,

Wand'ring in the myrtle grove;
Restore, restore Eurydice to life :
Oh, take the husband, or return the wife !

He sung, and hell confented

To hear the Poet's prayer ;
Stern Proserpine 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 Music and Love were victorious.

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

Now

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 ghoft,
For ever, ever, ever loft !

Now with Furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's snows.
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he Aies !
Hark! Hamus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries

Ah, see, he dies !
Yet e'en in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue ;

Euy dice the woods,

Eurydice the foods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

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disarm ;

VII.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And Fate's fevereit

rage
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please;
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found.
C2

When

When the full organ joins the tuneful quires

Th’immortal pow'rs incline their ear ;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
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 shade from Hell,

Her's lift the soul to Heav'n.

VOL. I. p. 59.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

AN

OD E.

I.
VITAL spark of heav'nly Aame !
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame :
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying;

Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond Nature! cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

II.
Hark! they whisper ; Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, fhuts my fight,

Drowns

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

III.
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears

With founds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory ?-
O Death! where is thy fting?

vol. 1. p. 68.

CRITICIS M. 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of kill Appear in writing, or in judging ill; But, of the two, less dang'rous is th’offence To tire our patience, than millead our sense : Some few in that, but numbers err in this; Ten censure wrong, for one who writes amiss. A fool might once himself alone expose; Now one in verse makes many more in prose. "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 seldom is the Critic's share : Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light; These born to judge, as well as thofe to write. C 3

Let

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

}

A

Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find
Most 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-fense defac'd:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
In search of wit these lose their common-fense,
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 spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mavius scribble in Apollo's {pite,
There are who judge still worfe than he can write,
Some have, at first, 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 horse nor ass.
Those half-learn’d Witlings, num'rous in our Ille
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile ;

Unfinish'd

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