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OVERTURE A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR TRIO.
Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
1 When truth and virtue, &c.
The praise attending pomp and power,
Blest spiritthou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, How hast thou left mankind for Heaven! Even now reproach and faction mourn, And, wondering how their rage was born, Request to be forgiven! Alas! they never had thy hate: Unmov'd in conscious rectitude, Thy towering mind self-centred stood, Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight, A thousand gifts would fortune send; In vain, to drive thee from the right, A thousand sorrows urged thy end: Like some well fashion'd arch thy patience stood, And purchased strength from its increasing load. Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, Affliction still is virtue's opportunity! Virtue on herself relying, Every passion hush'd to rest, Loses every pain of dying In the hopes of being blest. Every added pang she suffers Some increasing good bestows, And every shock that malice offers Only rocks her to repose.
SONG. BY A MAN—AFFETUOSO.
Virtue on herself relying, &c. to
Yet ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate,
Death with its formidable band,
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow:
But, mischievously slow,
They robb'd the relie and defac'd the shrine.
With unavailing grief.
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round,
Beheld each hour
Death's growing power,
And trembled as he frown'd.
As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross:
They stood while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.
SONG. BY A MAN BASSO, STACCATO, SWRITUOSO.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
And ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
SONG. BY A WOMAN AMOROSO.
Lovely lasting Peace below,
Our vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell,
Want pass'd for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,