LITMIR.BIZ

        When Orpheus tuned his lyre with pleasing woe,

        Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow,

        While listening forests covered as he played,

        The soft musician in a moving shade.

        That this night's strains the same success may find,

        The force of magic is to music joined;

        Where sounding strings and artful voices fail,

        The charming rod and muttered spells prevail.

        Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand

        On barren mountains, or a waste of sand,

        The desert smiles; the woods begin to grow,

        The birds to warble, and the springs to flow.

           The same dull sights in the same landscape mixed,

        Scenes of still life, and points for ever fixed,

        A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow,

        And pall the sense with one continued show;

        But as our two magicians try their skill,

        The vision varies, though the place stands still,

        While the same spot its gaudy form renews,

        Shifting the prospect to a thousand views.

        Thus (without unity of place transgressed)

        The enchanter turns the critic to a jest.

           But howsoe'er, to please your wandering eyes,

        Bright objects disappear and brighter rise:

        There's none can make amends for lost delight,

        While from that circle we divert your sight.

        Long has a race of heroes fill'd the stage,

        That rant by note, and through the gamut rage;

        In songs and airs express their martial fire,

        Combat in trills, and in a fugue expire:

        While, lull'd by sound, and undisturb'd by wit,

        Calm and serene you indolently sit,

        And, from the dull fatigue of thinking free,

        Hear the facetious fiddle's repartee:

        Our home-spun authors must forsake the field,

        And Shakspeare to the soft Scarletti yield.

           To your new taste the poet of this day

        Was by a friend advised to form his play.

        Had Valentini, musically coy,

        Shunn'd Phædra's arms, and scorn'd the proffer'd joy,

        It had not moved your wonder to have seen

        An eunuch fly from an enamour'd queen:

        How would it please, should she in English speak,

        And could Hippolitus reply in Greek!

        But he, a stranger to your modish way,

        By your old rules must stand or fall to-day,

        And hopes you will your foreign taste command,

        To bear, for once, with what you understand.

        The man resolved, and steady to his trust,

        Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just,

        May the rude rabble's insolence despise,

        Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries;

        The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles,

        And the stern brow, and the harsh voice defies,

        And with superior greatness smiles.

           Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms

        Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms,

        The stubborn virtue of his soul can move;

        Not the red arm of angry Jove,

        That flings the thunder from the sky,

        And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly.

           Should the whole frame of nature round him break,

        In ruin and confusion hurled,

        He, unconcerned, would hear the mighty crack,

        And stand secure amidst a falling world.

           Such were the godlike arts that led

        Bright Pollux to the blest abodes;

        Such did for great Alcides plead,

        And gained a place among the gods;

        Where now Augustus, mixed with heroes, lies,

        And to his lips the nectar bowl applies:

        His ruddy lips the purple tincture show,

        And with immortal

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