« AnteriorContinuar »
Now under hanging mountains,
And calls her ghost,
Amidst Rhodope's snows :
Ah see, he dies !
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And antedate the bliss above.
The immortal powers incline their ear:
And angels lean from heaven to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell; To bright Cecilia greater power is given : His mumbers raised a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to heaven,
TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS. Altered from Shakspeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose desire these two Choruses were composed, to supply as many, wanting in his Play. They were set many years afterward by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-house.
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
Groves, where immortal sages taught;
Unspotted long with human blood.
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
And Athens rising near the pole!
O cursed effects of civil hate,
In every age, in every state! Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.
CHORUS OP YOUTHS AND VIRGINS,
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
Which nature hath impress'd ?
The gods and Brutus bend to love :
And burn for ever one;
Productive as the sun.
What various joys on one attend,
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
What home-felt raptures move!
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine :
Sacred Hymen ! these are thine.
ODE ON SOLITUDE.
HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound, Content to breath his native air
In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire. Bless'd, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd ; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please
Thus unlamented let me die,
Tell where I lie.
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
With sounds seraphic ring :
Oh death! where is thy sting?
AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.
PART I. Introduction. That it is as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public, ver. 1. That a true taste is as rare to be found as a true genius, ver. 9 to 18. That most men are born with some taste, but spoiled by false education, ver. 10 to 25. The multitude of critics, and causes of them, ver. 26 to 45. That we are to study our own taste, and know the limits of it, ver. 46 to 67. Nature the best guide of judgment, ver. 68 to 87. Improved by art and rules, which are but methodized nature, ver. 88. Rules derived from the practice of ancient poets, ver88 to 110. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a critic, particularly Homer and Virgil, ver. 120 to 138. Of licences, and the use of them by the ancients, ver. 140 to 180. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them, ver. 181, &c. 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill ; But of the two, less dangerous is the offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.