Sad Orpheus fought his confort loft;

Th inexorable gates were barr'd,

And nought was feen, and nought was heard
Around the dreary coaft,

But dreadful gleams,

Difmal fcreams,

Fires that glow,

Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghofts.

But hark! he ftrikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghosts refpire,
See fhady forms advance!

Thy ftone, O sifyphus, ftands ftill

Ixion refts upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance;

The furies fink upon their iron beds,

And fnakes uncurl'd hang lift'ning round their heads.

V.

By the ftreams that ever flow,

By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elyfian flow'rs,,

By thofe happy fouls who dwell

In yellow meads of Afphodel,

Or Amaranthine bow'rs:

By the hero's armed fhades
Glitt'ring thro the gloomy glades,
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wandring in the myrtle grove,
Reftore, reftore Eurydice to life;
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!

He fung, and hell confented

To hear the Poet's pray'r; Stern Proferpine relented,

And gave him back the fair.

Thus fong could prevail

O'er death and o'er hell,

A conqueft how hard and how glorious?
Tho fate had faft bound her

With Styx nine times round her,
Yet mufic and love were victorious.

VI."

But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again the falls, again fhe dies, fhe dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal fifters move?

No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.

Now

Now under hanging mountains,

Befides the falls of fountains,

Or where Hebrus wanders,

Rolling in Maanders,

All alone,

Unheard, unknown,

He makes his moan;

And calls her ghoft,

For ever, ever, ever loft!
Now with furies furrounded,
Defpairing, confounded,

He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's fnows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the defart he flies; Hark! Hamus refounds with the Bacchanals cries

-Ah fee, he dies!

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he fung,

Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue,

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung

VII.

Mufic the fierceft griefs can charm,

And fate's fevereft rage difarm:

Mufic can foften pain to ease,

And make defpair and madness please:

Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the blifs above.

This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her maker's praise confin'd the found. When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear; Born on the fwelling 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 pow'r is giv'n; His numbers rais'd a fhade from hell, Hers lift the foul to heav'p.

VERTUMNUS

AND

POMON A:

From the fourteenth Book of

OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

TH

HE fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign;
Of all the virgins of the fylvan train,

None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,

Or more improv'd the vegetable care.

To her the fhady grove, the flow'ry field,
The ftreams and fountains, no delights could yield;
Twas all her joy the rip'ning fruits to tend,
And fee the boughs with happy burthens bend.

The