Where Hecla's flames the snows dissolve,

Or storms, the polar skies involve;

Where, o'er the tempest-beaten wreck,

The raging winds and billows break;

On the sad earth, and in the stormy sea,

All, all shall shudd'ring own your potent agency.

To aid your toils, to scatter death,

Swift, as the sheeted lightning's force,

When the keen north-wind's freezing breath Spreads desolation in its course,

My soul within this icy sea,

Fulfils her fearful destiny.

Thro' Time's long ages I shall wait

To lead the victims to their fate;

With callous heart, to hidden rocks decoy,

And lure, in seraph-strains, unpitying, to destroy.

CHORUS OF DRYADS.

FROM THE ORFEO OF POLITIANO.

HARK, hark! the soft winds low resound,
Our hopes are gone, our glory fled!
Mourn, mourn! ye rivers murmuring round,
Ye drink the tears that 'balm the dead!

Before thy shadows, Death, decline

The stars of heaven, and veil their beams;

And every flower of summer seems,

Eurydice! in faded bloom,

To feel the breath that blighted thine.

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And Love, while drooping Nature dies,

In deeper woe shall mingle sighs,

Eurydice! that thou wert lur'd

By cruel Fate's avenging doom,

From hope, from life, to darkness and the tomb.

Hark, hark! &c.

Ah Fortune! serpent, mining deep,

In fear, in grief, in wrath reveal'd!

Torn as a lily from the field,

She wither'd like the rose of morn,

Before the tempest's whelming sweep.→→

Pale is that face, and humbled low,

That blush'd in beauty's living glow:

Our joys are dust! our sun decay'd!

Those lucid eyes are quench'd in night,

That shone to gladden earth, and minister delight.

Hark, hark! &c.

And Thou, whose soul-entrancing breath

First wak'd the lyre to love and woe!

All silent now that magic flow,

That hush'd to peace the warring winds,

And charm'd the iron ear of Death!

Can Music soothe when thou art lost,

Exulting Nature's proudest boast?

Thou troubled ocean! murmur deep

Let louder lamentations rise,

From desolated earth, and pierce the darken'd skies.

Hark, hark! the soft winds low resound,
Our hopes are gone, our glory fled!
Mourn, mourn! ye rivers murmuring round,

Ye drink the tears that 'balm the dead!

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM ROUSSEAU.

WHY, plaintive warbler! tell me why
For ever sighs thy troubled heart?

Cannot these groves, that glowing sky,
A solace to thy woes impart?

Shall Spring his blooming wreaths entwine,
To circle every brow, but thine?

See! Nature, at thy wish'd return,
Renews her robe of gayest green;