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Sad Orpheus sought his consort loft;
Th' inexorable gates were barr'd,
And nought was seen, and nought was heard

Around the dreary coaft,
But 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 Sisyphus, stands ftill..
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

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

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

O’er th’Elysian flow'rsy,
By those happy souls who dwell

in yellow meads of Asphodel,

Or Amaranthine bow'rs:
By the hero's armed shades
Glitt'ring thro the gloomy glades,
By the youths that dy'd for love,

Wandring 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 pray'r;
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 fast bound her

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

VI."
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again she falls, again the dies, the dies !
How wilt thou now the fatal fifters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.

Now

Now under hanging mountains,
Besides 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 surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,

Amidst Rhodope's snows:
See, wild as the winds, o'er the defart he flies;
Hark! Hamus resounds with the Bacchanals criesa

-Ah see, he dies !
Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue,

Eurydice the woods,

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

VII.
Mafic the fierceft griefs can charm,
And fate's fevereft rage disarm :

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 confin'd the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th’immortal pow'rs incline their ear; Born on the swelling notes our souls aspire, While solemn airs improve the sacred 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 soul to heav'n.

VERTUMNUS

AND

POMONA:

From the fourteenth Book of

OVID's METAMORPHOSES.

T

HE fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign;

Of all the virgins of the sylvan train,

None taught the trees a nobler race to bear, Or more improv'd the vegetable care. To her the shady grove, the flow'ry field, The streams and fountains, no delights could yield; 'Twas all her joy the rip'ning fruits to tend, And see the boughs with happy burthens bend.'

The

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