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Paint the proud arch so lively to the sight,
That every line reflects a watery light.

Hence to the garden should your fancy fly,
Let the tall tulip with your Iris vie ;
With a mix'd glory crown its radiant head,
The brightest yellow ting'd with streams of red;
Next let the lily in your numbers blow,
And o'er its sweetness shake the downy snow,
In the white garb of virtue let it rise,

And wave in verse before the virgin's eyes;
On tuneful feet let languid ivy crawl,

And in poetic measure scale the wall,
While the sharp sheers return a clipping sound,
And the green leaves fall quivering to the ground.

Here in the bower of beauty newly shorn,
Let Fancy sit, and sing how Love was born;
Wrapt up in roses, Zephyr found the child,
In Flora's cheek when first the Goddess smil'd:
Nurs'd on the bosom of the beauteous spring,
O'er her white breast he spread his purple wing,
On kisses fed, and silver drops of dew,

The little wanton into Cupid grew;

Then arm'd his hand with glittering sparks of fire,
And tipt his shining arrows with desire:
Hence joy arose upon the wings of wind,
And hope presents the lover always kind;
Despair creates a rival for our fears,
And tender pity softens into tears.

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Observe, how Sappho paints the lover's pain,
What various passions animate her strain !
Her color fades, she faints in tender lays,
Her pulse beats languid, and her sense decays;
Then in a rapid tide of passions tost,

Her weak tongue faulters, and her voice is lost;
Again her soul revives, her breath returns,
Again she shivers, and again she burns:
Each reader's bosom feels her various care,
Warm'd by her flame, or chill'd by her despair.

Tost, as the sea, by passions, let the soul
Like the brine sparkle, like the billows roll;
Then anger kindles in the warrior's eyes,
And earth usurps the thunder of the skies:
See how they mount upon the groaning car,
Shake the long lance, and overtake the war;
Aloft in air resounds the whirling thong,
The horses fly, the chariot smokes along;
The foaming coursers press upon their heels,
Back run the lines beneath the whirling wheels:
Fleeter than light they flash along the fields,
And suns by thousands blaze upon their shields:
The twisted serpents, round their helmets roll'd,
Must hiss in verse, and bite in burnish'd gold:
The wars break in-now millions are no more,
And a long groan pursues the gushing gore ;
Spears, darts, and javelins, launch along the sky,
Plunge into blood, or into shivers fly :
Thus let your heroes rage, by Mars possest,

And feel an Iliad rising in your breast;
But soon cement those wounds, let discord cease,
And warring worlds unite in friendly peace.

Hence sounds in softer notes must learn to move,
And melting music rise the voice of love!
Let Tubal's lute in skilful hands appear,
And pour new numbers on the listening ear;
With the full organ let them sweetly swell,
With the loud trumpet languishingly shrill;
Or in soft concord let the concert suit,
The sprightly clarion with the Dorian flute :
Then wake to vocal airs the warbling wire,
Let the strings run beneath the poet's fire;
While sorrow sighs, ah! never let them cool,
But melt melodious on the soften'd soul:
So may the passions wait upon your hand,
Move as you move, and act as you command.

And here Arion's harp may swell the strain,
Or smooth your numbers as it smooth'd the main
When wondering Sirens to its sounds advanc'd,
And bounding dolphins o'er the billows danc'd;
Admiring Tritons round the music play,
And angry seas in measure roll away :

A tide of rapture rose as he requir'd,

White work'd the waves, and foam'd as he inspir'd;
The billows beat upon the sounding string,

And through the hollow harp the waters ring.

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As on a moon-light night, when Neptune calls
His finny coursers from their coral stalls,

From some white cliff, whose brow reflects the deep,
He leads them forth, and bids the billows sleep,
The waves obey; so still a silence reigns,
That not a wrinkle curls the watery plains;
Like floating mercury the waves appear,
And the sea whitens with a heaven so clear:
Before him Triton blows his twisted shell,
And distant sea-nymphs know the signal well;
In long procession the caerulean train
With joy confess the sovereign of the main :
Such were the raptures of the sea-green race,
When sweet Arion cross'd the watery space;
When first his fingers felt the music rise,
And mix'd in melody the seas and skies.

On land Amphion swells the magic song,
And round his fingers moving mountains throng;
At every stroke he sees fair Thebes aspire,
Walls rise on walls, and temples soaring higher:
At ever stroke new wonders deck the strain,
The big creation of a poet's brain!

Hear how Timotheus wraps the soul in sounds, And drops the notes like balm upon her wounds; The moulded measures querulous decay, Till a swift tremor sweeps the sounds away: By sweet degrees again they gather near, Recover fast, and thunder on the ear;

Down the broad brass his bold hands brush the tones,
The long string leaps, and vibrates into groans;
Let furious Saul be figur'd to thy mind,
So mad-as not to be by verse confin'd;
With music arm'd the sweet musician stands,
And o'er the golden cordage spreads his hands;
The monarch's looks are fix'd upon the strings,
And his eyes languish as young David sings;
His fury falls, as that begins to rise,
And all his soul seems starting from his eyes!

But chief the music of the spheres must please,
If sounds celestial warble in thy lays;

When the three Parcae, Fate's fair offspring born,
The world's great spindle as its axle turn;

Round which eight spheres in beauteous order run,
And as they turn revolving time is spun:
Whose motions all things upon earth ordain,
Whence revolutions date their fickle reign;
These, rob'd in white, at equal distance thron'd,
Sit o'er the spheres, and twirl the spindle round,
On each of which a Siren loudly sings,
As from the wheel the fatal thread she flings;
The Parcae answer, in the choir agree,
And all those voices make one harmony.

To Titian turn, to Raphael praises give, Hence picture rose, and shadows seem'd to live; On Guido look, to Rubens rear thine eye, Where each bold figure seems a stander-by;

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