His nofe and mouth, the avenues of breath,
They muzzle up, and beat his limbs to death.
With violence to life and ftifling pain
He flings and fpurns, and tries to fnort in vain,
Loud heavy mows fall thick on every fide,
'Till his bruis'd bowels burft within the hide.
When dead, they leave him rotting on the ground,
With branches, thyme, and caffia, ftrow'd around.
All this is done when firft the western breeze
Becalms the year, and smooths the troubled feas;
Before the chattering fwallow builds her neft,
Or fields in fpring's embroidery are dreft.
Mean while the tainted juice ferments within,
And quickens as it works: and now are feen
A wondrous fwarm, that o'er the carcafe crawls,
Of shapeless, rude, unfinish'd animals:
No legs at first the infect's weight fuftain,
At length it moves its new-made limbs with pain;
Now strikes the air with quivering wings, and tries
To lift its body up, and learns to rise;
Now bending thighs and gilded wings it wears
Full grown, and all the bee at length appears;
From every fide the fruitful carcafe pours
Its fwarming brood, as thick as fummer showers,
Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows,
When twanging ftrings firft shoot them on the foes.
Thus have I fung the nature of the bee;
While Cæfar, towering to divinity,
The frighted Indians with his thunder aw'd,
And claim'd their homage, and commenc'd a god;
I flourish'd all the while in arts of peace,
Retir'd and shelter'd in inglorious ease:
I who before the fongs of thepherds made,
When gay and young my rural lays I play'd,
And set my Tityrus beneath his fhade.
FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, AT OXFORD.
CECILIA, whofe exalted hymns
With joy and wonder fill the bleft,
In choirs of warbling feraphims
Known and diftinguifh'd from the reft;
Attend, harmonious faint, and fee
Thy vocal fons of harmony;
Attend, harmonious faint, and hear our prayers;
Enliven all our earthly airs,
And, as thou fing'st thy God, teach us to fing of thee:
Tune every string and every tongue,
Be thou the Muse and subject of our fong.
Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim,
Employ the echo in her name.
Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise,
At bright Cecilia's name, their lays;
organ labours in her praise.
Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace,
From every voice the tuneful accents fly,
In foaring trebles now it rises high,
And now it finks, and dwells upon the base.
Cecilia's name through all the notes we fing,
The work of every skilful tongue,
The found of every trembling string,
The found and triumph of our song.
III.
For ever confecrate the day,
To Mufic and Cecilia;
Mufic, the greatest good that mortals know,
And all of heaven we have below.
Mufic can noble hints impart,
Engender fury, kindle love;
With unfufpected eloquence can move,
And manage all the man with fecret art.
When Orpheus ftrikes the trembling lyre,
The ftreams ftand still, the stones admire;
The liftening favages advance,
The wolf and lamb around him trip,
The bears in aukward measures leap,
And tigers mingle in the dance.
The moving woods attended as he play'd,
And Rhodope was left without a fhade.
Mufic religious heats inspires,
It wakes the foul, and lifts it high,
And wings it with fublime defires,
And fits it to befpeak the Deity.
Th' Almighty liftens to a tuneful tongue,
And feems well-pleas'd and courted with a song.
Soft moving founds and heavenly airs
Give force to every word, and recommend our prayers.
When time itfelf fhall be no more,
And all things in confufion hurl'd,
Mufic fhall then exert its power,
And found furvive the ruins of the world:
Then faints and angels fhall agree
* In one eternal jubilee :
All heaven fhall echo with their hymns divine,
And God himself with pleasure fee
The whole creation in a chorus join,
CHORUS.
Confecrate the place and day
To mufic and Cecilia,
Let no rough winds approach, nor dare
Invade the hallow'd bounds,
Nor rudely fhake the tuneful air,
Nor fpoil the fleeting sounds.
Nor mournful figh nor groan be heard,
But gladness dwell on every tongue;
Whilft all, with voice and ftrings prepar'd,
Keep up the loud harmonious fong,
And imitate the bleft above,
In joy, and harmony, and love.
SINCE, deareft Harry, you will needs request
A fhort account of all the Muse-possest,
That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times,
Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes;
Without more preface, writ in formal length,
To speak the undertaker's want of ftrength,
I'll try to make their several beauties known,
And fhow their verfes worth, though not my own,
Long had our dull forefathers slept supine,
Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine;
Till Chaucer firft, a merry bard, arose,
And many a story told in rhyme and profe.
But age has rufted what the Poet writ,
Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit:
In vain he jefts in his unpolifh'd ftrain,
And tries to make his readers laugh in vain.
Old Spenfer next, warm'd with poetic rage,
In ancient tales amus'd a barbarous age;
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