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H

I.
APPY and free, fecurely bleft;

No beauty could difturb my reft ;
My amorous heart was in despair,
To find a new victorious fair.

II.
Till you descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains ;
Where now you rule without controul
The mighty sovereign of my soul.

III.
Your smiles have more of conqu’ring charms,
Than all your native country arms :
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.

IV.
But in your eyes, oh! there's the spell,
Who can see them, and not rebel :
You make us captives by your stay,
Yet kill us if you go away.

1 This song is a compliment to the Dutchess of Portsmouth on her first coming to England,

On

On the YOUNG STATESMEN.

Written in 1680.

CLAR

A RENDON had law and sense,

Clifford was fierce and brave; Bennet's grave

look was a pretence, And Danby's matchlefs impudence

Help'd to support the knave.
But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory 2,
These will appear such chits in story,

"Twill turn all politics to jests, To be repeated like John Dory,

When fidlers fing at feafts.

Protect us, mighty Providence,

What would these madmen have ?
First, they would bribe us without pence,
Deceive us without common sense,

And without pow'r, enslave.
Shall free-born men, in humble awe,

Submit to fervile shame;
Who from consent and custom draw
The same right to be rul'd by law,

Which kings pretend to reign?
The duke shall wield his conqu’ring sword,

The chancellor make a speech,
The king shall pass his honest word,
The pawn'd revenue fums afford,
And then, come kiss

my

breech, 2 Laurence Hyde, afterwards earl of Rochester, is the perfos here called Lory.

So

So have I seen a king on chess

(Hir rooks and knights withdrawn, His queen and bishops in distress) Shifting about, grow less and less,

With here and there a pawn.

A SONG for St. CECILIA’s Day,

1687

FROM

1.
ROM harmony, from heav'nly harmony

This universal frame began :
When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And cou'd not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heav'nly harmony

This universal frame began :

From harmony to 'harmony
Thro' all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason clofing full in Man.

II.
What passion cannot Mafic raise and quell!

When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His liftning brethren stood around,
And, wond'ring, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.

Lefs

a

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

III.
The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat

Of the thund'ring drum
Cries, hark! the foes come ;
Charge, Charge, 'tis too late to retreat.

IV.
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

V.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful, dame.

VI.
But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise ?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heav'nly ways
To mend the choirs above.

VII.
Orpheus cou'd lead the favage race ;
And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher :

When

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When to her organ vocal breath was giv'n,
An angel heard, and straight appear’d

Miftaking earth for heav'n.

Grand CHORU S..

As from the pow'r of sacred lays

The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the bless'd above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead fall live, the living die, And Music hall untune the sky,

The Tears of AMYNTA, for the

DEATH of DAMON.

SON G.

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1.
N a bank, befide a willow,

Heav'n her cov'ring, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta figh'd alone:
From the chearless dawn of morning
"Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus she made her moan:

Hope is banishid,

Joys are vanilh'd, Damon, may belov’d, is gone!

11. Time,

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