See, fee, the battle is prepar'd!
Behold, the hero comes !

Loud trumpets with fhrill fifes are heard ;
And hoarfe refounding drums.

War, with difcordant notes and jarring noise,
The harmony of peace deftroys.

CHORUS.

War, with difcordant notes and jarring noise,
The harmony of peace deftroys.

VII.

See the forfaken fair, with ftreaming eyes
Her parting lover mourn;

She weeps, the fighs, despairs, and dies,
And watchful wastes the lonely livelong nights,
Bewailing paft delights

That may no more, no never more return.
O footh her cares

With fofteft, fweetest airs,

Till victory and

peace reftore

Her faithful lover to her tender breast,

Within her folding arms to reft,
Thence never to be parted more,
No never to be parted more.

CHORUS.

Let victory and peace restore

Her faithful lover to her tender breast,
Within her folding arms to rest,
Thence never to be parted more,
No never to be parted more.

Enough,

VIII.

Enough, Urania, heavenly fair!

Now to thy native skies repair,

And rule again the starry sphere;

Cecilia comes, with holy rapture fill'd,
To ease the world of care,

Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill'd!
Phoebus himself to her muft yield,
And at her feet lay down

His golden harp and laurel crown.
The soft entervate lyre is drown'd
In the deep organ's more majeftic found.
In peals the fwelling notes afcend the skies;
Perpetual breath the fwelling notes fupplies,
And lafting as her name,

Who form'd the tuneful frame,
Th' immortal mufic never dies.

GRAND CHORUS.

Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill'd, Phœbus himself to her muft yield, And at her feet lay down

His golden harp and laurel crown.
The foft enervate lyre is drown'd
In the deep organ's more majeftic found.
In peals the fwelling notes afcend the skies;
Perpetual breath the swelling notes fupplies,
And lafting as her name,

Who form'd the tuneful frame,
Th' immortal mufic never dies.

A

FTER a painful life in study spent,

The learn'd themfelves their ignorance lament; And aged men, whofe lives exceed the space Which feems the bound prefcrib'd to mortal race, With hoary heads, their fhort experience grieve, As doom'd to die before they 've learn'd to live. So hard it is true knowledge to attain, So frail is life, and fruitless human pain! Whoe'er on this reflects, and then beholds, With strict attention, what this book unfolds, With admiration ftruck, fhall question who So very long could live, fo much to know? For fo complete the finifh'd piece appears, That learning feems combin'd with length of years; And both improv'd by pureft wit, to reach At all that study or that time can teach. But to what height must his amazement rife! When, having read the work, he turns his eyes Again to view the foremoft opening page, And there the beauty, fex, and tender age,

Of

Of her beholds, in whofe pure mind arose

Th' ætherial fource from whence this current flows!
When prodigies appear, our reason fails,
And fuperftition o'er philofophy prevails.
Some heavenly minifter we ftrait conclude,
Some angel-mind with female form endued,
To make a fhort abode on earth, was fent,
(Where no perfection can be permanent)
And, having left her bright example here,
Was quick recall'd, and bid to disappear.
Whether around the throne, eternal hymns
She fings, amid the choir of feraphims;

Or fome refulgent ftar informs, and guides,
Where the, the bleft intelligence, prefides;
Is not for us to know who here remain;
For 'twere as impious to enquire, as vain :
And all we ought, or can, in this dark state,
Is, what we have admir'd, to imitate.

EPITAPH

Upon ROBERT HUNTINGDON, of Stanton Harcourt, Efq. and ROBERT his Son.

ΤΗ

HIS peaceful tomb does now contain
Father and fon, together laid;

Whose living virtues shall remain,

When they, and this, are quite decay'd,

What man fhould be, to ripenefs grown,
And finish'd worth fhould do, or fhun,
At full was in the father fhown;

What youth could promife, in the fon.

But death obdurate, both destroy'd

The perfect fruit, and opening bud: First feiz'd those fwects we had enjoy'd, Then robb'd us of the coming good.

TO MR.

DRYDEN,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS.

S when of old heroic ftory tells

Of knights imprison'd long by magic spells,

Till future time the deftin'd hero fend,

By whom the dire enchantment is to end :
Such feems this work, and fo referv'd for thee,
Thou great revealer of dark poefy.

Thofe fullen clouds, which have, for ages past,
O'er Perfius' too-long fuffering Mufe been caft,
Disperse, and fly before thy facred pen,

And, in their room, bright tracks of light are feen,
Sure Phoebus' felf thy fwelling breast inspires,
The god of mufic, and poetic fires :

Elfe, whence proceeds this great furprize of light!
How dawns this day, forth from the womb of night!
Our wonder now does our past folly show,
Vainly contemning what we did not know :