3 But when our country's cause provokes to arms, How martial music every bosom warms!

So when the first bold vessel dared the seas, High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain, While Argo saw her kindred trees Descend from Pelion to the main.

Transported demigods stood round, And men grew heroes at the sound, Inflamed with glory's charms: Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, And half unsheath'd the shining blade: And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, 'To arms, to arms, to arms!'

4 But when through all the infernal bounds, Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, Love, strong as death, the poet led To the pale nations of the dead, What sounds were heard, What scenes appear'd, O'er all the dreary coasts!

Dreadful gleams, Dismal screams, Fires that glow, Shrieks of woe, Sullen moans, Hollow groans, And cries of tortured ghosts!

But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre; And see! the tortured ghosts respire, See, shady forms advance!

Thy stone, O Sisyphus! stands still, Ixion rests upon his wheel.

And the pale spectres dance!

The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.

5 'By the streams that ever flow, By the fragrant winds that blow O'er the Elysian flowers; By those happy souls who dwell In yellow meads of asphodel, Or amaranthine bowers; By the hero's armed shades, Glittering through the gloomy glades; By the youths that died for love, Wandering in the myrtle grove, Restore, restore 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, And gave him back the fair.

Thus song could prevail O'er death and o'er hell, A conquest how hard and how glorious!

Though fate had fast bound her With Styx nine times round her, Yet Music and Love were victorious.

6 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes: Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!

How wilt thou now the fatal sisters 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 ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost!

Now with Furies surrounded, Despairing, confounded, He trembles, he glows, Amidst Rhodope's snows: See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Haemus resounds with the bacchanals' cries-- Ah see, he dies!

Yet even in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue, Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

7 Music the fiercest grief can charm, And Fate's severest rage disarm: 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 confined the sound.

When the full organ joins the tuneful choir, The immortal powers incline their ear; Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, While solemn airs improve the sacred fire; And angels lean from heaven to hear.

Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is given; His numbers raised a shade from hell, Hers lift the soul to heaven.

TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought; Groves, where immortal sages taught: Where heavenly visions Plato fired, And Epicurus' lay inspired; In vain your guiltless laurels stood Unspotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades, And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.

ANTISTROPHE I.

O heaven-born sisters! source of art!

Who charm the sense, or mend the heart; Who lead fair Virtue's train along, Moral truth, and mystic song!

To what new clime, what distant sky, Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?

Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore, Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

When Athens sinks by fates unjust, When wild barbarians spurn her dust; Perhaps even Britain's utmost shore Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore, See Arts her savage sons control, And Athens rising near the pole!

Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Ye gods! what justice rules the ball?

Freedom and Arts together fall; Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves, And men, once ignorant, are slaves.

Oh, cursed effects of civil hate, In every age, in every state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SEMICHORUS.

O tyrant Love! hast thou possess'd The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?

Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim, And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.

Love, soft intruder, enters here, But entering learns to be sincere.

Marcus with blushes owns he loves, And Brutus tenderly reproves.

Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire, Which Nature has impress'd Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire The mild and generous breast?

CHORUS.

Love's purer flames the gods approve; The gods and Brutus bend to love: Brutus for absent Portia sighs, And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.

What is loose love? a transient gust, Spent in a sudden storm of lust, A vapour fed from wild desire, A wandering, self-consuming fire.

But Hymen's kinder flames unite, And burn for ever one; Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light, Productive as the sun.

SEMICHORUS.

Oh source of every social tie, United wish, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend, As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!

Whether his hoary sire he spies, While thousand grateful thoughts arise; Or meets his spouse's fonder eye; Or views his smiling progeny; What tender passions take their turns, What home-felt raptures move?

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns, With reverence, hope, and love.

CHORUS.

Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises, Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises, Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises, Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!

Purest love's unwasting treasure, Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure, Days of ease, and nights of pleasure; Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO.[55]

Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite, Codrus writes on, and will for ever write.

The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone, As clocks run fastest when most lead is on; What though no bees around your cradle flew, Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew, Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head.

When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre, Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.

Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same, As meat digested takes a different name, But sense must sure thy safest plunder be, Since no reprisals can be made on thee.