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The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above;
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love !)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god;
Sublime on radiant fpires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press’d,
And while he fought her snowy breast;

Then roand her fender waift he curl'd,
And ftamp'd an image of himself, a fov'reign of the world.

The lift'ning crowd admire the lofty found:
A present deity !' they thout around;
• A present deity!' the vaulted roofs rebound,

With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears ;
Affumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the fweet musician sang 3
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young.

• The jolly god in triumph comes ;
• Sound the trumpets, beat the drums :

« Flush'd with a purple grace,

• He shews his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath.--He comes ! he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and

• Drinking joys did first ordain :
• Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure !

Rich the treasure,
• Sweet the pleasure ;
• Sweet is pleasure after pain!"

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Sooth'd with the found, the king grew vain ;

Fought all his battles o'er again ; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he llew the slain.



The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes,
And while he heay'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check’d his pride,

He chose a mournful Muse,

Soft Pity to infuse :
He fung, · Darius, great and good!

By too fevere a fate,
• Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,

• Fallen from his high eftate,
. And welt'ring in his blood,
· Deserted at his utmoft need, .
• By those his former bounty fed ;
« On the bare earth expos'd he lies,

· With not a friend to clofe his eyes.' With downçast looks the joyless victor fate, Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below ; And now and then a figh he stole,

And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smild to fee
That Love was in the next degree ;
'Twas but a kindred found to move,
For Pity melts the mind to Love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he footh'd his soul to pleasures.
• War,' he sung, 'is toil and trouble,
• Honour, but an empty bubble :
• Never ending, still beginning,

• Fighting still, and still destroying : • If the world be worth thy winning,

Think, O think it worth enjoying ! • Lovely Thaïs fits beside thee ;

Take the good the gods provide thee!'

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The many rend the skies with loud applause :
So Love was crown'd, but Mufick won the cause,
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gaz'd on the fair

Who caus'd his care,
And figh'd and look'd, figh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and figh'd again...
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor funk upon her breaft.

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« Now strike the golden lyre again:
• A louder yet, and yet a louder ftrain.

• Break his bands of sleep afunder,
* And rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder,

Hark, hark! the horrid found
« Has rais'd


his head,
As awak'd from the dead,

And, amaz'd, he stares around.
• Revenge, revenge !' Timotheus cries ;

See the Faries arise !
• See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair?
And the sparkles that fall from their eyes !

• Behold a ghastly band,

• Each a torch in his hand !
"Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

· And unbury'd remain,
• Inglorious, on the plain.
« Give the vengeance due

« To the valiant crew :
Behold how they toss their torches on high,

• How they point to the Persian abodes,
• And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods !!

The princes applaud with a furious joy,
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy:



Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey;
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy,

Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,

While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing Aute :

And founding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft defirc.

At last, divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame ;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,

And added length to folemp sounds,
With Nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;
He rais'd a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.





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N ancient times, as story tells,

The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,


Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers canting itrain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain ;
Try'd ev'ry tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wand'ring faints, in woeful ftate,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having thro' all the village pafs'd,
To a small cottage came at last;
Where dwelt a good old honeft ye'man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon,
Who kindly did these faints invite,
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable fire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire,
While he from out the chimney took
A fitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest fide
Cut out large slices to be fry'd;
Then stepp'd afide to fetch 'em drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round:
Yet (what is wonderful !) they found
'Twas fill replenish'd to the top,
As if they had not touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz’d,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry, 'What art !'
Then softly turn'd afide, to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, foon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errant,

Good folks! you need not be afraid;
We are but saints ;' the hermits said.

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