ROS A M O N D.

AN OPER A.

INSCRIBED

TO HER GRACE

THE

DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.

Hic quos durus amor crudeli tabe peredit
Secreti celant. Calles, et Myrtea circùm
Sylva tegit.

VIRG. ÆN.6.

IN THE SIXTH MISCELLANY,

TO THE

AUTHOR OF ROSAMOND.

-Ne forte pudori
Sit tibi Musa Lyræ solers, et Cuntor Apollo.

By Mr. TICKELL.

M

The opera first Italian masters taught,
Enrich'd with songs, but innocent of thought.
Britannia's learned theatre disdains
Melodious trifles and enervate strains;
And blushes on her injur'd stage to see
Nonsense well tun'd and sweet stupidity.

No charms are wanting to thy artful song,
Soft as Corelli, but as Virgil strong,
From words so sweet new grace the notes receive,
And music borrows helps she us’d to give.
Thy style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new;
Their cadence in such easy sound convey'd,
That height of thought may seem superfluous aid;
Yet in such charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needless seem the sweets of easy sound.

Landscapes how gay the bow'ry grotto yields,
Which thought creates and lavish fancy builds !
What art can trace the visionary scenes,
The flow'ry groves, and everlasting greens,
The babbling sounds that mimic echo plays,
The fairy shade, and its eternal maze,

68

Nature and art in all their charms combin'd,
And all Elysium to one view confin'd!
No farther could imagination roam,
Till Vanbrook fram'd and Marlbro' rais'd the dome.

Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear,
When drown'd in tears I see th’imploring fair;
When bards less soft the moving words supply,
A seeming justice dooms the nymph to die;
But here she begs, nor can she beg in vain,
(In dirges thus expiring swans complain)
Èach verse so swells, expressive of her woes,
And ev'ry tear in lines so mournful flows;
We, spite of fame, her fate revers'd believe,

erlook her crimes, and think she ought to live.

Let joy transport fair Rosamonda's shade, And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid. While now perhaps with Dido's ghost she roves, And hears and tells the story of their loves, Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate, Since love, which made them wretched, makes them

great, Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan, Which gain'd a Virgil and an Addison.

Accept, great monarch of the British lays, The tribute song a humble subject pays. So tries the artless lark her early flight, And soars to hail the god of verse and light. Unrival'd as thy merit be thy fame, And thy own laurels shade thy envy'd name: Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful choir, Shall tremble on the strings of ev'ry lyre; While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies, Feels corresponding joys or sorrows rise, And views thy Rosamond with Henry's eyes.

ROSA MOND.