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What is this absorbs me quite,
breath? Tell me, my soul! can this be death?
The world recedes ; it disappears!
THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Unspotted long with human blood.
ANTISTROPHE 1. ( heaven-born sisters! source of art! Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair virtue's train along,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
STROPHE 11. When Athens sinks by fates unjust, When wild Barbarians spurn her dust; Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore : See arts her savage sons control,
And Athens rising near the pole! Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the laud.
Fools grant whate'er ambition craves,
In every age, in every state!
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
Wisdom and wit in vaiv reclaim,
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
Which nature hath impressid ?
The mild and generous breast?
Love's purer flanies the gods approve;
Brutus for absent Porcia sighs,
What is loose love? a transient gust,
And burn for ever one;
Productive as the sufl.
Oh, source of every social tie,
What various joys on one attend,
Whether his hoary sire be spies,
What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move! His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With reverence, hope, and love.
Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine.
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND
MORTIMER'. Such were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld and lost! admir'd and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd! Bless'd in each science ! bless'd in every strain ! Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear-in vain!
For him thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him despis’d the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great ; Dextrous the craving, fawning crowd, to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear) Recal those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays; Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great ; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
I sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's poems, published by our anthor after the Earl's imprisonment in the Tower and retreat into the country, in the year 1721.