hiffing ferpents, followed by a band of Grecian ghofts, who de
mand vengeance from their leader, toffing on high the torches
they held in their hands, and pointing to the Perfian temples
and palaces, urging him to destroy them with fire. Such is the
unexampled combination of poetical beauties, of almost every
fort, in which this juftly admired Ode abounds. No particle of
it can be wished away, but the epigrammatic turn of the four
concluding lines.
Dr. J. WARTON.

VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS,

PARAPHRASED.

CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations firft were laid,
Come vifit every pious mind;
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From fin and forrow fet us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O fource of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy facred unction bring
To fanctify us, while we fing.

Plenteous of grace, defcend from high,

Rich in thy fevenfold energy!

Thou ftrength of his Almighty hand,

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Whofe power does heaven and earth command.
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,

Who do'ft the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'ft thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!

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Our frailties help, our vice controul,
Submit the fenfes to the foul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold 'em down.

Chafe from our minds the infernal foe,

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And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And left our feet should step aftray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

32

Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thyfelf, that we may fee
The Father, and the Son, by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name :
The Saviour Son be glorify'd,
Who for loft man's redemption dy'd:
And equal adoration be,

Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

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Ver. 39. Eternal Paraclete,] This is a moft elegant and beautiful little morfel, and one of his most correct compofitions. Its poetry and piety aid each other.

Dr. J. WARTON.

THE

SECULAR MASQUE.

Enter JANUS.

JANUS.

CHRONOS, Chronos, mend thy pace,

An hundred times the rolling fun
Around the radiant belt has run
In his revolving race.

Behold, behold, the goal in fight,

Spread thy fans, and wing thy flight.

Enter CHRONOS, with a fcythe in his hand, and a globe on his back, which he fets down at his

entrance.

Let

CHRONOS.

Weary, weary of my weight, me, let me drop my freight, And leave the world behind. I could not bear,

Another year,

The load of human-kind.

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Enter Momus laughing. »

MOMUS.

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! well haft thou done

To lay down thy pack,

And lighten thy back,

The world was a fool, e'er fince it begun, And fince neither Janus, nor Chronos, nor I, Can hinder the crimes,

Or mend the bad times,

"Tis better to laugh than to cry.

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CHORUS OF ALL THREE.

"Tis better to laugh than to cry.

JANUS.

Since Momus comes to laugh below,

Old Time begin the show,

That he may fee, in

every scene,

What changes in this age have been.

CHRONOS.

Then goddess of the filver bow begin.

[Horns, or hunting-mufic within.]

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