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If golden sconces hang not on the walls,
To light the costly suppers and the balls ;
If the proud palace fines not with the state
Of burnish'd bowls, and of reflected plate;
If well-tun'd harps, nor the more pleasing found
Of voices, from the vaulted roofs rebound;
Yet on the grass, beneath a poplar fhade,
By the cool ítream, our careless limbs are laid;
With cheaper pleasure innocently blest,
When the warm spring with gaudy fow'rs is drest,
Nor will th' raging fever's fire abate,
With golden canopies and beds of state ;
But the poor patient will as soon be found
On the hard mattress, or the mother ground.
Then fince our bodies are not eas'd the more
By birth, or pow'r, or fortune's wealthy storc,
'Tis plain these useless toys of every kind,
As little can relieve the lab'ring mind :
Unless we could suppose the dreadful fight,
Of marshall'd legions, moving to the fight;
Could, with their sound and terrible array,
Expel our fears and drive the thoughts of death away.
But since the supposition vain appears,
Since clinging cares, and trains of inbred fears,
Are not with founds to be affrighted thence,
But in the midst of pomp pursue the prince ;
Not aw'd by arms, but in the presence bold,
Without respect to purple, or to gold;
Why should not we these pageantries despite,
Whofe worth but in our want of reason lies ?
For life is all in wand'ring errors led ;
And just as children are surpris'd with dread,
And tremble in the dark ; so riper years,
Een in bruad day-light, are poffeft with fears;
And shake at fhadows fanciful and vain,
As those which in the breast of ch'ldren reign.
These bugbears of the mind, this inward hell,
No rays of outward fun-fhine can dispel ;
But nature and right reason must display
Their beams abroad, and bring the darkfome foul to day.
VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS,
CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid,
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every p'ous mind ;
Come pour thy joys on human kind:
From fin and sorrow fet us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
Source of uncreated light,
The Father's promis'd Paraclete !
Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,
Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire ;
Come, and thy facred unction bring
To fan&ify us while we fing.
Plenteous of grace, difcend from high,
Rich in thy seven-fold energy!
Thou strength of his 4 Imighty hand,
Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command.
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who dost the gift of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence !
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts !
Our frailties help, our vice controul,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand and hold 'em down.
Chale from our minds th' internal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love bellow;
And, teit our feet ihould step astray,
Protect, and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe :
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee,
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend th’Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorify'd,
Who for lost man's demption dy'd :
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!
The Power of Music. AN ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY. TWAS
at the royal feast, for Perfia won,
By Philip's warlike fon :
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hero fate
On his imperial thront :
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,
(So should desert in arms be crown'u:)
The lovely Thạis by his fade
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 tunefal choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heav'nly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love !)
A dragon's fiery form hely'd the God :
Subline on radiant spheres he rode,
When he tv fair Olympia press’d,
And while he fought her snowy breast :
Then round her fender waid he curld, (world.
And itamp'd an image of himself, a fov'reign of the
The list’ning crowd admire the lofty found;
A present deity, they thout around,
A present deity the vaulted roofs rebound,
With ravith'd ears
The monarch hears;
Affumes the god,
Affe&ts to nod,
And seems to hake the spherés.
The praise of Pacchus then, the sweet mufician furg
Of Bacchus, ever fair, and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums :
Fluth'd with a purple grace,
He thews his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath : he comes, he comes !
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain :
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure :
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Sooth'd with the found, the king grew vain ;
Fought all his battles o’er again ;
And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he new the
The master saw the madness rise ; [flain.
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ;
And while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a inournfuil mufe,
Soft pity to infuse :
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fall'n, fall'n, fail'n,
Fail'n from his high estate,
And weltring in his bloud:
Deserted, at his utmoneed,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes,