What Man fo brutish Mufick cannot move;
Whose Force can charm the Savage Beasts to Love?
Oft' the rapacious Wolf has lift'ning stood,
Forfook the Lamb his Prey and darling Food;
The tim'rous Hare and nimble-footed Deer,
Careless of Dogs forget their wonted Fear,
Hafte from the Foreft to the Neighbouring Mead,
Lured by the Mufick of the Shepherd's Reed.
Since fenfelefs Brutes the Magick Sounds obey,
Is Man more fenfelefs, more unmoy'd than they?
Where can we Joys, like Mufick's Pleasures, find?
It chears the wearied, fooths the anxious Mind ;
Infpires with Pleasure in the mid'ft of Pain,
And with its Softness ftills the raging Brain.
Thus David's Lyre enraged Saul confin'd,
And tuned the harsh Disorders of his Mind:
Long the dire Fiend had rack'd his Royal Breast,
Long had he fought in vain his wonted Reft,
No Art could help him, no Delight cou'd please,
Till this Mufician gave his Spirits Eafe.
This great Mufician, with his skillful Hand, Alone, cou'd footh him, cou'd alone command. The ruddy Youth now ftrikes the tuneful Lay, Difpels his Madness, drives his Rage away, Commands his Paffions, and his Mind controuls; For Mufick's Force finds Paffage to our Souls.
The fixth ODE of the first Book of Horace, imitated to the King of SWEDEN. 1718.
ET POPE or PRIOR in immortal Verse
The glorious Deeds of SWEDEN'S Prince
YE, who can foar to the Maonian Strain,
Relate his Triumphs on the Land and Main,
And count the Numbers his own Hands have flain.
Nor Fights nor Sieges fuit my humble Song,
Nor glorious Heroes of the warlike Throng;
D 2
can't defcribe the RUSSHIAN Monarch's Ire,
Sing SPAIN'S Defigns, and BRITAIN'S martial Fire;
Then how, great SIR, fhou'd I my Numbers raise
To rate your A&tions or record your Praife.
You, who have dared the World, made BRITAIN'S
STATE
Expect from you their own and Country's Fate;
You, to whofe Aid the Wretched ftill resort,
And find a fure Afylum at your Court.
How flou'd my Meafures your great Deeds express,
Or paint YOUR Merits in their proper Drefs.
Then let me not provoke with impious Care,
The angry Vengeance of the God of War:
But rather let LOVE's Sports imploy my Lyre,
Whofe Feafts and Banquets may my Soul infpire
To fing thofe Wars that all the Brave admire.
The twelfth ODE of the first Book of Horace. Beginning at Romulus poft hos. Vc.
ELL me CLIO fhall I fing
ILIA'S Son the Roman King?
Or of NU MA's peaceful Reign?
TARQUIN'S Pride? Or Caro flain?
Shall FABRICIUS grace my Mufe ?
He cou'd profer'd Crowns refufe.
ATTILIUS Conftant to his Word,
Fear'd no Carthagenian Sword."
PAULUS for the Publick Good,
Prodigal of Noble Blood.
CURIUS and CAMILLUS bold,
Poor, yet not defiring Gold;
But contented with their Store,
Neither fought nor wifh'd for more.
As an Oak whofe Branches rife
Till its Height provoke the Skies;
So MARCELLUS great appears,
Stealing Fame as ftealing Years.
JULIUS, as the Moon at Night,
Still obfcures each other Light;
Brightest Stars and Plannets join,
Yet her Rays fuperior fhine.
Son of SATURN, mighty Jove,
God on Earth, and God above,
Let AUGUSTUS next have Place,
And be Lord of Humane Race:
Whether the Indians or the Meads,
Or Parthians He in Triumph leads;
They with Slaughter threat'ned Rome,
Yet from CÆSAR met their Doom.
He as Second rules below,
you angry Thunder throw
From your Throne on ev'ry Grove,
Made Unchafte by wicked Love.
|