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Thus nothing to her genius was denied,
But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone,

And her bright soul broke out on every side.
What next she had design'd Heaven only knows :
To such immoderate growth her conquest rose,
That Fate alone its progress could oppose.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.
Not wit, nor piety could Fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel Destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep, at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine !
But thus Orinda died:

Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate:
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays,
Ah, generous youth, that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,

}

Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,

Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far,
Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star;
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
"Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground;

When, in the valley of Jehoshaphat,

The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep

For those who wake, and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly,

From the four corners of the sky;

When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred Poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are cover'd with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint! before the quire shall go,
As harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

}

SONG

For St. Cecilia's Day, 1687.

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began:

When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold and hot, and moist and dry,

In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony,

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell!
When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell!

The Trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms;

With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms;

The double, double, double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, Hark! the foe's come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.

The soft complaining Flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling Lute.

Sharp Violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,

For the fair disdainful dame.

But, oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred Organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the Lyre;

But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher,
When to her Organ vocal breath was giv'n;
An angel heard, and straight appear'd,
Mistaking earth for Heav'n.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the pow'r of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the bless'd above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

}

ANONYMOUS.

THE IVY.
IVY.

HOW yonder ivy courts the oak,

And clips it with a false embrace!

So I abide a wanton's yoke,

And yield me to a smiling face.

And both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

How fain the tree would swell its rind !
But, vainly trying, it decays.

So fares it with my shackled mind,
So wastes the vigour of my days.
And soon our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

A lass, forlorn for lack of grace,
My kindly pity first did move;
And, in a little moment's space,
This pity did engender love.
And now my death must prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

For now she rules me with her look,
And round me winds her harlot chain;
Whilst, by a strange enchantment struck,
My nobler will recoils in vain.
And soon my death will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

But, had the oak denied its shade,
The weed had trail'd in dust below;
And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness

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