6 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! Haemus resounds with the bacchanals' cries-- Ah see, he dies! Yet even in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue, Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung. 7 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 choir, The immortal powers incline their ear; Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, While solemn airs improve the sacred fire; And angels lean from heaven to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is given; His numbers raised a shade from hell, Hers lift the soul to heaven. TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS. CHORUS OF ATHENIANS. STROPHE I. Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought; Groves, where immortal sages taught: Where heavenly visions Plato fired, And Epicurus' lay inspired; In vain your guiltless laurels stood Unspotted long with human blood. War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades, And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades. ANTISTROPHE I. O heaven-born sisters! source of art! Who charm the sense, or mend the heart; Who lead fair Virtue's train along, Moral truth, and mystic song! To what new clime, what distant sky, Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly? Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore, Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more? STROPHE II. When Athens sinks by fates unjust, When wild barbarians spurn her dust; Perhaps even Britain's utmost shore Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore, See Arts her savage sons control, And Athens rising near the pole! Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land. ANTISTROPHE II.