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Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,

Enflam’d with glory's charms:
Each chief his fev'n-fold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade :

And feas, and rocks, and skies rebound)

To arms, to arms, to arms !


But when thro' all th' infernal bounds,,
Which flaming Phlegeton surrounds,

Love, strong as Death, the Poet led

To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appeard,
O’er all the dreary coasts !

Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woen:
Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts!
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre ;:
And see! the tortur'd ghofts respire !

See, thady forms advance!
Thy stone, o Sisyphus, stands ftill,
Ixion refts

upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance! The furies sink upon their iron beds, , And snakes, uncurl'd, hang lift'ning round their heads.


By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O’er th’ Elysian flow’rs ;
By those happy fouis who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,

Or Amaranthine bowers ;
By the heros' armed shades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,

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

He sung, and Hell consented

To hear the Poet's prayer ;
Stern Proserpine relented,

him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail

O’er death, and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious ?

Tho' fate had faft bound her

With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious.

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


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,

Amidit Rhodope's snows:
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies;
Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals cries

Ah see, he dies ! Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he fung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue,

Eurydice the woods,

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


Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's fevereft


disarm :
Music can foften 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 sounda
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th' immortal pow’rs incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn 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 given; His numbers rais’d a shade from hell,

Her's lift the soul to Hear'n.








These are Mr. Gay's principal performance. They

were originally intended, I suppose, as a buro lesque on those of Philips; but, perhaps without designing it, he has hit the true spirit of pastoral poetry. In fact, he more resembles. Theocritus than any other English paftoral writer whatso

There runs through the whole a strain of ruftic pleasantry which should ever diftinguish this species of compofition; but how far the an, tiquated expressions used here may contribute to the humour, I will not determine; for my own part, I could with the fimplicity were preserved, without recurring to such obsolete antiquity for. the manner of expreffing it.


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