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From these, perhaps (ere nature bade her die,) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And separate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood ! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say (While the long funerals blacken all the way,) Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steeld, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn’d to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone (oh, ever-injured shade !) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear, Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What though no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year; And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,! Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd,
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n be, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou beloy'd no more !
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
The breathing instruments inspire,
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
O'er all the dreary coasts !
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters 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, unknown, He makes his moan; And calls her ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost! Now with furies surrounded, Despairing, confounded, He trembles, be glows, Amidst Rhodope's snows: See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals' criesAh see, he dies ! Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue; Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung. Music the fiercest grief can charm, And fate's severest.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 confind the sound. When the full organ joins the tuneful quire, The' immortal pow'rs incline their ear; Borne 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 shade from hell, Her's lift the soul to Heav'n.