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The mighty master smild, to see
That love was in the next degree :
'Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'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 sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee.-
The many rend the skies with loud app
So love was crown'd, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gaz'd on the fair

Who caus'd his care,
And sigh'd and look’d, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
At length, with love and wine at once oppressid,
The vanquislı'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And sore him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark! the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head;
As awak'd from the dead,

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

See the furies arise,
See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes.

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!
These 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 glittring 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 the breathing flute

And sounding lyre Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire.

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 solemn 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.



Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas then, by the cave of a mountain reclia'd,
A Hermit his nightly complaint thus began,
Though mournful his voice, his heart was resigu’d,
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man:


“Ah, why thus abandon’d to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass awayFull quickly they pass,-- but they never return.

" Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The Moon half-extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again.But Man's faded glory no change shall renew, Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain !

“ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum’d with fresh fragrance, and glittring with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn! Owlien shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"

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YE shepherds so cheerful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I;

I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

Now I know what it is, to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my fiock in the inorn,

And the damps of each ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn:

-I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.

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