AIR. Rife, youth-thy country calls thee from thy fhade. Amid the horrors of War's dreadful trade. Thy country groans: forego thy fhade— 'Tis Honour calls thee to her aid. CHORUS. Thy country groans: forego thy fhade- RECITATIVE. The youth awoke-and starting wide, The heroick form, the piercing tone And all his heart confefs'd the heav'nly maid. From all a father's love, From all a nation's care, 'Gainft mountains cap'd with fnows, Gigantick war to wage The gen'rous heart what flow'ry scenes can please, CHORUS. The gen'rous heart what flow'ry scenes can please, CANTATA II. The POET. AIR. Give me, indulgent Mufe, to rove The mazes of thy laurel'd grove, To choose a wreath for WILLIAM's brow RECITATIVE. I walk-I wander here and there- A figh now fhook the weeping tree, Brake from the recent wound, And fet the form of beauteous Daphne free. AIR. Coy Daphne you behold in me; For WILLIAM's fake I willing bleed. Lefs fair was Phoebus' chace for unfought fame, CANTATA III. The PAINTER. AIR. Sweet mimick thou of Nature's face, Thy pencil take, thy colour spread 3 On thy canvas curious trace Every virtue, every grace, That hovers round our WILLIAM's head. RECITATIVE. Let Victory before him fly, And Fortitude with stedfast eye; Let Prudence with her mirrour haste, Studious of future by the past; With Industry in vigour blooming, And Science knowing much, yet less assuming. To group the piece, and fwell the train, The blood of thousands flain; Paint her panting, finking, dying, Paint her fons at diftance flying. Scarce recover'd from her toils: Paint Juftice ready to avenge her pain, Near her paint Mercy crown'd: soft-fmiling let her stand, Cease to declaim, the artist cries, Of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace, See, by degrees the features rife : Behold them all in WILLIAM's face. CANTATA IV. The MUSICIAN. RECITATIVE. O various power of magick ftrains, Obedient owns the artist's skill. Thus in gay notes, and boastful words, Bat But foon he found his boast was air, To all the tuneful tales he told. AIR. To love when he tun'd the soft lyre, Hear, cries the artist, pow'r divine, And easiest glide into her breast. AIR. No more I woo in warbling ftrains, The nymph with rapture hears. CANTATA V. The SHEPHERD. Beneath an oak's indulgent fhade |