Describe the groves beneath, the sylvan bowers, Behold where bright Urania does advance, See next her charming sister, young and gay, In beauty's bloom like the sweet month of May! The sportful nymph, once in the neighbouring grove, Surpris'd by chance the sleeping god of Love; Though Helen's form, and Cleopatra's charms, Be still, ye whispering winds, and moving trees! At once victorious with her voice and eyes. We court that skill, by which we're sure to die; So generous victors softest pity know, Her sighing lovers, who in crowds adore, TO MOLINDA. TH' inspiring Muses and the god of Love, Which most should grace the fair Molinda strove: Love arm'd her with his bow and keenest darts, The Muses more enrich'd her mind with arts. Though Greece in shining temples heretofore The ancients thought no single goddess fit, Did Venus and Minerva's powers adore, To reign at once o'er Beauty and o'er Wit; Each was a separate claim; till now we find From hence, when at the court, the park, the play, The different titles in Molinda join'd. She gilds the evening, or improves the day, All eyes regard her with transporting fire, One sex with envy burns, and one with fierce desire: But when withdrawn from public show and noise, In silent works her fancy she employs, A smiling train of Arts around her stand, And court improvement from her curious hand. She, their bright patroness, o'er all presides, And with like skill the pen and needle guides; By this we see gay silken landscapes wrought, Whether her voice in tuneful airs she moves, By that, the landscape of a beauteous thought: Or cuts dissembled flowers and paper groves, Her voice transports the ear with soft delight, Her flowers and groves surprise the ravish'd sight: Which ev'n to Nature's wonders we prefer; All but that wonder Nature form'd in her. A LETTER TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY. WHILST thou art happy in a blest retreat, In such an air, how can soft numbers flow, Are but some sparks that soon as born expire. Hail happy Woods! harbours of Peace and Joy! Where no black cares the mind's repose destroy! Where grateful Silence unmolested reigns, Assists the Muse, and quickens all her strains, Such were the scenes of our first parents' love, And murmuring streams, to grace their nuptials All nature smil'd; the plains were fresh and green, Might I with you my peaceful days live o'er, No false corrupt delights our thoughts should move, VERSES PRESENTED TO A LADY, WHEN generous Dido in disguise caress'd No such event, fair nymph, you need to fear, The poison'd shaft, the Parthian bow, and spear In vain you lace the helm, and heave in vain the He's only safe, whose armour of defence If o'er the steepy Alps he go, Or where fam'd Ganges and Hydaspes flow; Encounters moving hills of sand; No sense of danger can disturb his rest; Thus, late within the Sabine grove, A grizly wolf, with glaring eye, View'd me unarm'd, yet pass'd unhurtful by. Numidia never saw a more prodigious beast; Where the stern lion shakes his knotted mane, And roars aloud for prey, and scours the spacious plain. Place me where no soft breeze of summer wind [beat. And rattling storms of hail, and noisy tempestɛ HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXII. Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus, Non get Mauri jaculis neque arcu, &c. IMITATED IN PARAPHRASE. HENCE, slavish Fear! thy Stygian wings display! Wrapp'd in thick clouds, and shades of night, Vainly, you feeble wretches, you prepare The wandering sailors, pale with fear, For thee the gods implore, When the tempestuous sea runs high, And when, through all the dark benighted sky, No friendly moon or stars appear To guide their steerage to the shore: For thee the weary soldier prays; Furious in fight, the sons of Thrace, And Medes, that wear majestic by their side A full-charg'd quiver's decent pride, Gladly with thee would pass inglorious days, Renounce the warrior's tempting praise, And buy thee, if thou might'st be sold, With gems, and purple vests, and stores of plunder'd gold. But neither boundless wealth, nor guards that wait Nor anti-chambers with attendants fill'd, And their foul nests, like swallows, build Close to the palace-roofs, and towers that pierce the sky. Much less will Nature's modest wants supply; Nor knows the sordid lust of gain, Nor with Fear's tormenting pain Vain man! that in a narrow space At endless game projects the daring spear! So flies the wounded stag, provok'd with pain, But swifter far is execrable Care grassy Than stags, or winds that through the skies Thick-driving snows and gather'd tempests bear; Pussuing Care the sailing ship out-flies, Climbs the tall vessel's painted sides; Nor leaves arm'd squadrons in the field, But with the marching horsemen rides, And dwells alike in courts and camps, and makes all places yield. Then, since no state's completely blest, Drew his protracted breath. Thee shining wealth and plenteous joys surround, And, all thy fruitful fields around, Unnumber'd herds of cattle stray. Thy harness'd steeds with sprightly voice Make neighbouring vales and hills rejoice, While smoothly thy gay chariot flies o'er the swift measur'd way. To me the stars, with less profusion kind, THE BIRTH OF THE ROSE. ONCE, on a solemn festal day The birth of greens and springing flowers, "Ye shining Graces of my courtly train, Let me your counsel and assistance ask, The deities that stood around, At first return'd a murmuring sound; "Tis fix'd-and hear how I'll the cause decide. Th' applauding deities with pleasure heard, Of richest fruits a plenteous store; Of smiles and graces: the plump god of Wine In silence, and with awe profound. wear: Behold the wondrous change, the fragrant tree! To leaves was turn'd her flowing hair; And rich diffus'd perfumes regal'd the wanton air. Heavens! what new charm, what sudden light, Improves the grot, and entertains the sight! A sprouting bud begins the tree t' adorn; The large the sweet vermilion flower is born! The goddess thrice on the fair infant breath'd, To spread it into life, and to convey The fragrant soul, and every charm bequeath'd To make the vegetable princess gay: Then kiss'd it thrice: the general silence broke, And thus in loud rejoicing accents spoke. "Ye flowers at my command attendant here, Pay homage, and your sovereign Rose revere! No sorrow on your drooping leaves be seen; Let all be proud of such a queen, So fit the floral crown to wear, To glorify the day, and grace the youthful year." Thus speaking, she the new-born favourite The transformation was complete; [crown'd, The deities with songs the queen of flowers did greet: Soft flutes and tuneful harps were heard to sound; While now to Heaven the well-pleas'd goddess flies With her bright train, and reascends the skies. words, it may be proper to acquaint the public, that they are the first essays of this kind, and were written as an experiment of introducing a sort of composition, which had never been naturalized in our language. Those who are affectedly partial to the Italian tongue will scarce allow music to speak any other; but if reason may be admitted to have any share in these entertainments, nothing is more necessary than that the words should be understood, without which the end of vocal music is lost. The want of this occasions a common complaint, and is the chief, if not the only reason, that the best works of Scarlati and other Italians, except those performed in operas, are generally but little known or regarded here. Besides, it may be observed, without any dishonour to a language which has been adorned by some writers of excellent genius, and was the first among the moderns in which the art of poetry was revived and brought to any perfection, that in the great number of their operas, serenatas, and cantatas, the words are often much inferior to the composition; and though, by their abounding with vowels, they have an inimitable aptness and facility for notes, the writers for music have not always made the best use of this advantage, or seem to, have relied on it so much as to have regarded little else; so that Mr. Waller's remark on another occasion may be frequently applied to them: Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song. Yet so great is the force of sounds well chosen and skilfully executed, that, as they can hide indifferent sense, and a kind of associated pleasure arises from the words though they are but mean; so the impression cannot fail of being in proportion much greater, when the thoughts are natural and proper, and the expressions unaffected and agreeable. Since, therefore, the English language, though inferior in smoothness, has been found not incapable of harmony, nothing would perhaps be wanting towards introducing the most elegant style of music, in a nation which has given such generous encouragements to it, if our best poets would sometimes assist this design, and make it their diversion to improve a sort of verse, in regular measures, purposely fitted for music, and which, of all the modern kinds, seems to be the only one that can now properly be called lyrics. It cannot but be observed on this occasion, that since poetry and music are so nearly allied, it is a misfortune that those who excel in one are often perfect strangers to the other. If, therefore, a better correspondence were settled between the two sister arts, they would probably contribute to each other's improvement. The expressions of harmony, cadence, and a good ear, which are said to be so necessary in poetry, being all borrowed from music, show at least, if they signify any thing, that it would be no improper help for a poet to understand more than the metaphorical sense of them. And on the other hand, a composer can never judge where to lay the accent of his music, who does not know, or is not made sensible, where the words have the greatest beauty and force. There is one thing in compositions of this sort which seems a little to want explaining, and that is the recitative music, which many people hear without pleasure, the reason of which is, perhaps, that they have a mistaken notion of it. They are accustomed to think that all music should be air; and being disappointed of what they expect, they lose the beauty that is in it of a different kind. It may be proper to observe, therefore, that the recitative style in composition is founded on that variety of accent which pleases in the pronunciation of a good orator, with as little deviation from it as possible. The different tones of the voice, in astonishment, joy, sorrow, rage, tenderness in affirmations, apostrophes, interrogations, and all the varieties of speech, make a sort of natural music, which is very agreeable; and this is what is intended to be imitated, with some helps by the composer, but without approaching to what we call a tune or air; so that it is but a kind of improved elocution or pronouncing the words in musical cadences, and is indeed wholly at the mercy of the performer to make it agreeable or not, according to his skill or ignorance, like the reading of verse, which is not every one's talent. This short accoun may possibly suffice to show how properly the recitative has a place in compositions of any length, to relieve the ear with a variety, and to introduce the airs with the greater advantage. As to Mr. Pepusch's success in these compositions, I am not at liberty to say any more than that he has, I think,' very naturally expressed the sense of the words. He is desirous the public should be informed, that they are not only the first he has attempted in English, but the first of any of his works published by himself; and as he wholly submits them to the judgment of the lovers of this art, it will be a pleasure to him to find, that his endeavours to promote the composing of music in the English language, after a new model, are favourably accepted. CANTATA I. ON ENGLISH BEAUTY. RECITATIVE. WHEN Beauty's goddess from the ocean sprung, And rais'd her tuneful voice, and thus she sung. AIR. Hail, Britannia! hail to thee, And dedicate to me its groves; Thou my favourite land shalt be. RECITATIVE. Britannia heard the notes diffusing wide, O welcome! welcome to my shore! AIR. Lovely isle! so richly blest! CANTATA II. ALEXIS. RECITATIVE. SEE,-from the silent grove Alexis flies, And seeks with every pleasing art To ease the pain, which lovely eyes Created in his heart. To shining theatres he now repairs, Where thus to Music's power the swain address'd his To learn Camilla's moving airs, prayers. AIR. Charming sounds! that sweetly languish, Music, O compose my anguish! Every passion yields to thee; Phoebus quickly then relieve me: Cupid shall no more deceive me; I'll to sprightlier joys be free. RECITATIVE. Apollo heard the foolish swain; He knew, when Daphne once he lov'd, How weak, t'assuage an amorous pain, His own harmonious art had prov'd, And all his healing herbs how vain. Then thus he strikes the speaking strings, Preluding to his voice, and sings. AIR. Sounds, though charming, can't relieve thee; Do not, shepherd, then deceive thee, Music is the voice of Love. If the tender maid believe thee, Kind consenting, Will alone thy pain remove. CANTATA III. ON THE SPRING. WITH VIOLINS. AIR. FRAGRANT Flora! haste, appear, Zephyr gently courts thee now. RECITATIVE. Thus on a fruitful hill, in the fair bloom of spring. |