 | Poems and Translations |  |
76
To Cælia playing on a Lute.
An ODE.
I
While Cælia's Hands fly swiftly o'er,And strike this soft Machine,
Her Touch awakes the Springs, and Life
Of Harmony within.
II
Sweetly they sink into the Strings,The quiv'ring Strings rebound,
Each Stroke obsequiously obey,
And tremble into Sound.
77
III
Oh! had You blest the Years of old;His Lute had Ovid strung,
And dwelt on yours, the charming Theme
Of his immortal Song.
IV
Your's, with Arion's wondrous Harp,The Bard had hung on high;
And on the new-born Star bestow'd
The Honours of the Sky.
V
The radiant Spheres had ceas'd their Tunes,And danc'd in silence on,
Pleas'd the new Harmony to hear,
More Heav'nly than their own.
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VI
Of old to raise One Shade from Hell,To Orpheus was it giv'n:
But every Tune of Yours calls down
An Angel from his Heav'n.
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