SELECTIONS FROM SHADWELL.

ODE ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE KING'S BIRTH.

WELCOME, thrice welcome, this auspicious morn

On which the great Nassau was born,

Sprung from a mighty race which was designed
For the deliv'rers of mankind.

Illustrious heroes, whose prevailing fates

Raised the distressed to high and mighty states;
And did by that possess more true renown,
Than their Adolphus gained by the Imperial crown.

They cooled the rage, humbled the pride of Spain.
But since the insolence of France no less,
Had brought the States into distress,

But that a precious scion did remain

From that great root, which did the shock sustain,
And made them high and mighty once again.
This prince for us was born to make us free

From the most abject slavery.

Thou hast restored our laws their force again ;
We still shall conquer on the land by thee;
By thee shall conquer on the main.

But thee a Fate much more sublime attends,
Europe for freedom on thy sword depends;
And thy victorious arms shall tumble down
The savage monster from the Gallick throne;
To this important day we all shall owe,

Oh glorious birth, from which such blest effects shall flow.
(General chorus of voices and instruments.)

On this glad day let every voice

And instrument proclaim our joys,

And let all Europe join in the triumphant noise,

Io Triumphe let us sing,

Io Triumphe let us sing,

And let the sound through all the spacious welkin ring.

Thus the prophetic muses say,

And all thy wise and good will pray,

That they long, long, may celebrate this day.

Soon haughty France shall bow, and coz'ning Rome, And Britain mistress of the world become;

And from thy wise, thy God-like sway,

Kings learn to reign, and subjects to obey.

SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

O SACRED harmony, prepare our lays,
While, on Cecilia's day, we sing your praise,
From earth to heaven our warbling voices raise !

Join all ye glorious instruments around,
The yielding air with your vibrations wound,
And fill Heaven's conclave with the mighty sound.

You did at first the warring atoms join,
Made qualities most opposite combine,
While discords did with pleasing concords twine.

The universe you fram'd, you still sustain ;
Without you, what in tune does now remain
Would jangle into Chaos once again.

It does your most transcendent glory prove,
That, to complete immortal joys above,
There must be harmony to crown their love.

Dirges with sorrow still inspire
The doleful and lamenting choir,
With swelling hearts and closing eyes,
They solemnise their obsequies;

For grief they frequent discords choose,
Long bindings and chromatics use.
Organs and viols sadly groan
To the voices' dismal tone.

If Love's gentle passions we
Express, there must be harmony;
We touch the soft and tender flute,
The sprinkling and melodious lute,

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When we describe the tickling smart
Which does invade a love-sick heart :
Sweet nymphs in pretty murmurs plain,
All chill and panting with the pleasing pain,
Which can be eas'd by nothing but the swain.

If poets in a lofty epic strain,
Some ancient noble history recite,

How heroes love, and puissant conquerors fight,
Or how of cruel fortune they complain;

Or if the muse the fate of empires sings

The change of crowns, the rise and fall of kings;

CHORUS.

This sacred music does impart

Life and vigour to the art;

It makes the dumb poetic pictures breathe,
Victors and poet's names it saves from death.

How does the thundering martial song
Provoke the military throng!

The hautboys and the warlike fife,

With clamours of the deafening drum,

Make peasants bravely hazard life

And quicken those whom fears bemoan!
The clangour of the trumpets' sound

Fills all the dusty place around,

And does from neighbouring hills rebound :
To triumph when we sing,

We make the trembling valleys ring.

GRAND CHORUS.

All instruments and voices fit the choir,
While we enchanting harmony admire.
What mighty wonders by our arts are taught,
What miracles by sacred numbers wrought,
On earth in heaven, no joys are perfect found,
Till by celestial harmony they're crown'd.

FROM THE INNOCENT IMPOSTORS.

How long must women wait in vain
A constant love to find?

No art can fickle man retain,

Or fix a roving mind.

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