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The fpirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions hold
Th' immortal mind that hath forfook
Her manfion in this flefhly nook:
And of thofe Dæmons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whofe power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy
In fcepter'd pall come fweeping by,
Prefenting Thebes, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the bufkin'd stage.
But, O fad virgin, that thy power
Might raife Mufeus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
-And made hell grant what love did feek. Skull
Or call up him that left half-told
The ftory of Cambufcan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd that virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horfe of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought elfe, great Bards befide,
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung;
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear, as R
Thus night oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,
Not trickt and frounc't as fhe was wont,
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But cherchef't in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in clofe covert by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's gairifh eye,
While the bee with honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring
With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;
And let fome ftrange myfterious dream,
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture difplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, fweet mufic breath
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fome fpirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars maffy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voiced quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with fweetnefs, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry ftar that heav'n doth fhew,
And ev'ry herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
Thefe pleafures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choofe to live.
Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by fome Noble Perfons of her Family, who appear on the Scene in Paftoral Habit, moving toward the Seat of State, with this Song.
OOK nymphs, and fhepherds look,
What fudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence defcry,
Too divine to be mistook?
To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Here our folemn fearch hath end.
Fame that her high worth to raife,
Seem'd erft fo lavish and profufe,
We may juftly now accufe
Of detraction from her praife;
Lefs than half we find expreft,
Envy bid conceal the reft.
Mark what radiant ftate fhe fpreads,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like filver threads :
This, this is fhe alone,
Sitting like a Goddess bright,
In the center of her light.
Might the the wife Latona be,
Or the towred Cybele,
Mother of a hundred gods;
Juno dares not give her odds.
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparallel'd?
As they come forward, the Genius of the Wood appears, and turning toward them fpeaks.
TAY gentle fwains, for though in this difguife, I fee bright honour fparkle through your eyes, Of famous Arcady ye are, and fprung Of that renowned flood, fo often fung, Divine Alpheus, who by fecret fluce, Stole under feas to meet his Arethufe; And ye the breathing rofes of the wood, Fair filver-bufkin'd nymphs as great and good, I know this queft of yours, and free intent Was all in honour and devotion meant To the great miftrefs of yon princely fhrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine, And with all helpful fervice will comply To further this night's glad folemnity; And lead ye where ye may more near behold What fhallow-fearching Fame hath left untold; Which I full oft amidst these shades alone Have fat to wonder at, and gaze upon: For know by lot from Jove I am the pow'r Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bow'r, To nurfe the faplings tall, and curl the grove With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my plants I fave from nightly ill,
Of noifom winds, and blafting vapours chill.
And from the boughs brush off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blew,
Or what the crofs dire-looking planet fmites,
Or hurtful worm with canker'd venom bites.
When ev'ning gray doth rife, I fetch my round.
Over the mount; and all this hallow'd ground,
And early ere the odorous breath of mora
Awakes the lumbring leaves, or taffel'd horn
Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about,
Number my ranks, and vifit every sprout
With puiffant words, and murmurs made to bless:
But elfe in deep of night, when drowsiness
Hath lockt up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celeftial Sirens harmony, !!!
That fit upon the nine enfolded fphears,
And fing to thofe that hold the vital fhears,
And turn the adamantine fpindle round,
On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such fweet compulfion doth in mufic ly,
To lull the daughters of Neceflity,
And keep unfteddy nature to her law,
And the low world in measur'd motion draw
After the heav'nly tune, which none can hear
Of human mould with grofs unpurged ear;
And yet fuch mufic worthielt were to blaze
The peerless height of her immortal praise,
Whofe luftre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable founds: yet as we go,
What e'er the skill of leffer gods can fhow,
I will affay, her worth to celebrate,
And fo attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all that are of noble stem
Approach, and kifs her facred veftures hem.