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That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horfe of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought elfe great bards befide
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus night oft fee me in thy pale carreer,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,

Not trickt and frounct as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a fhower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruflling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddefs bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,

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Where the rude ax with heaved ftroke
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt,

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There in close covert by fome brook,

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from day's garish eye,

While the bee with honied thie,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,

And the waters murmuring

With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in aery stream

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Of

. 169 Of lively portraiture display'd,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by fome Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars maffy proof,
And ftoried windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every star that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
Thefe pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choofe to live.

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ARCADES.

XV.

ARCADES.

Part of an Entertainment prefented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by some noble perfons of her family, who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this Song.

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1. SONG.

OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What fudden blaze of majesty

Is that which we from hence defcry,
Too divine to be mistook :

This, this is fhe

To whom our vows and wishes bend;
Here our folemn fearch hath end.

Fame, that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erft fo lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accufe
Of detraction from her praise;
Less than half we find exprcft,
Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark what radiant ftate fhe spreads,
In circle round her fhining throne,
Shooting her beams like filver threads;
This, this is the alone,

Sitting like a Goddess bright,
In the center of her light.

Might the the wife Latona be,
Or the towred Cybele,

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Mother of a hundred Gods;

Juno dares not give her odds;

Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparallel'd?

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As they come forward, the Genius of the wood appears, and turning toward them, speaks.

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GENIUS.

TAY gentle Swains, for though in this disguise, I fee bright honor sparkle through your eyes; Of famous Arcady ye are, and fprung

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Of that renowned flood, fo often fung,
Divine Alpheus, who by fecret fluce
Stole under feas to meet his Arethufe;
And ye, the breathing roles of the wood,
Fair filver-bufkin'd Nymphs as great and good,
I know this queft of yours, and free intent
Was all in honor and devotion meant
To the great mistress of yon princely fhrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful fervice will comply
To further this night's glad folemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
What shallow-fearching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft amidst these shades alone
Have fat to wonder at, and gaze upon:
For know by lot from Jove I am the Power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,
To nurse the faplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my plants I fave from nightly ill
Of noisome winds, and blasting vapors chill
And from the boughs brush off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,

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Ör what the cross dire-looking planet fmites,
Or hurtful worm with canker'd venom bites.
When evening gray doth rife, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground, 55
And early ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the flumb'ring leaves, or taffel'd horn
Shakes the high thicket, hafte I all about,
Number my ranks, and visit every sprout
With puiffant words, and murmurs made to bless;
But elfe in deep of night, when drowsinefs
Hath lock'd up mortal fenfe, then liften I
To the celeftial Sirens harmony,

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That fit upon the nine infolded spheres,

And fing to thofe that hold the vital shears,
And turn the adamantin fpindle round,

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On which the fate of Gods and men is wound.

Such fweet compulsion doth in music lie,
To lull the daughters of Neceffity,

And keep uniteddy Nature to her law,

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And the low world in measur'd motion draw
After the heav'nly tune, which none can hear
Of human mold with grofs unpurged ear;
And yet fuch music worthiest were to blaze
The peerless highth of her immortal praise,
Whose luftre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable founds, yet as we go,
Whate'er the skill of leffer Gods can fhow,
I will affay, her worth to celebrate,
And fo attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all that are of noble stem
Approach, and kiss her facred vesture's hem.

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