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The mighty master smild, to see
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O, think it worth enjoying !
Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.-
Gaz'd on the fair
Who caus'd his care,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
Now strike the golden lyre again;
And amaz'd, he stares around.
See the furies arise,
How they hiss in their hair
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
And unbury'd remain,
To the valiant crew :
Thaïs led the way,
To light him to his prey,
Thus, long ago
And sounding lyre Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
“Ah, why thus abandon’d to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn: O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass awayFull quickly they pass,-- but they never return.
" Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The Moon half-extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again.But Man's faded glory no change shall renew, Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain !
“ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum’d with fresh fragrance, and glittring with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn! Owlien shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I;
I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my fiock in the inorn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
-I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.