By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elysian flow'rs;

By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or amaranthine bow'rs;
By the heroes' armèd shades,
Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades,
By the youths that died for love,
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove;
Restore, restore Eurydice to life:

Oh take the husband, or return the wife! He sung, and Hell consented

To hear the poet's prayer:

Stern Proserpine relented,

And gave him back the fair.

Thus song could prevail
O'er Death and o'er Hell,

A conquest how hard, and how glorious!
Though Fate had fast bound her
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet Music and Love were victorious.

VI.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his

eyes:

Again she falls-again she dies-she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,

All alone,

Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan; And calls her ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost!

Now with Furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies;

Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bac
chanals' cries-Ah see, he dies!
Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue,
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountain
rung.

VII.

Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's severest rage disarm;
Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please;
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above. This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confined the sound.

When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear; Borne on the swelling notes our souls as

pire,

While solemn airs improve the sacred

fire;

And angels lean from Heav'n to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,

To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n; His numbers raised a shade from Hell, Hers lift the soul to Heav'n.

ALEXANDER POPE.

THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

A PINDARIC ODE.

AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.

From Helicon's harmonious springs

A thousand rills their mazy progress

take;

The laughing flowers that round them blow

Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of Music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Egean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths creep,

proach declare:

Mute, but to the voice of anguish !

pay.

With arms sublime that float upon the air In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom

move

The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man's feeble race what ills await! Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!

Inspiration breathed around; Every shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound; Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian

plains.

Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-en circled coast.

O Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! Why, goddess, why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that loved Athenian bower You learn'd an all-commanding power, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd. Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Fill thy recording Sister's page ;— 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail,

Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
E'en all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound :-
Ch bid our vain endeavors cease:
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

INFLUENCE OF MUSIC. ORPHEUS with his lute made trees, And the mountain-tops that freeze,

Bow themselves, when he did sing: To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring. Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay byIn sweet music is such art: Killing care, and grief of heart, Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE. Ariel to Miranda :-Take

This slave of Music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.
For by permission and command
Of thine own prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon
In her interlunar swoon
Is not sadder in her cell
Tban deserted Ariel;

When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has track'd your steps and served your
will.

Now in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remember'd not;
And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprison'd for some fault of his
In a body like a grave—

From you he only dares to crave
For his service and his sorrow
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
The artist who this idol wrought
To echo all harmonious thought,
Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rock'd in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of autumn past,
And some of spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree—
Oh, that such our death may be!—
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again;
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest
star,

The artist wrought this loved guitar;
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamor❜d tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells.
For it had learn'd all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew.
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound
Which, driven on its diurnal round,