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While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep, majestic, folemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading founds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild mufic floats;

Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away
In a dying, dying fall.

By Music, minds an equal temper know,

Nor swell too high, nor fink too low. If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music her soft, assuasive voice applies ;

Or, when the soul is press’d with cares,

Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds:
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds :

Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouzes from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Lift'ning Envy drops her snakes;
Inteftine war no more our Passions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away their rage.

But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms !
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.

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

Enflam'd with glory's charms :
Each chief his sev’nfold fhield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade.:
And feas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms! ·

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But when thro' all th' 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 tortur'd ghosts !
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And see! the tortur'd ghosts respire,

See, shady forms advance !
Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands still,
Ixion refts upon his wheel,

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

Ву

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

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

Or Amaranthine bow'rs;
By the heroe's armed fades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,

Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life:
Oh take the Husband, or return the Wife !

He fung, and hell consented

To hear the Poet's prayer :
Stern Proserpine relented,
And
gave

him back the fair :
Thus fong 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.

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But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes :
Again she falls, again the dies, she dies !
How wilt thou now the fatal fisters 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,

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 fnows :
See, wild as the winds, o'er the defert he flies;
Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanal's cries

Ah see, he dies !
Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue,

Eurydice the woods,

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

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

Fage

difarm :
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 confịn’d the foundo'
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th’immortal pow'rs incline their ear:
Borne on the swelling notes our fouls aspire,
While folemn airs improve the facred fire ;

And Angels lean from heav'n to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is giv'n ;

His numbers rais'd a lhade from hell,

Her's lift the soul to heav'n.

POPE.

c H A P.

XXXIII

ALEXANDER'S FEAST.

"TWASE

WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won,

By Philip's warlike fon:
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hero fate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with rofes and with myrtle bound :

So should defert in arms be crown'd.
The lovely Thais by his fide
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride,

Happy, happy, happy pair ;
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus plac'd on high

Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heav'nly joys infptte.
The fong began from Jove;
Who left his blissful feats above,
Such is the pow'r of mighty love!

A dre

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