Classic Poem

AN

ODE.

Inscribed to the Patroness of the Italian Opera. To Lady B — —

When Orpheus, as old poets tell,
Carry'd his music down to hell,
He fill'd the shades with joys;
Alecto, and Tisiphone,
Megaera, with Brown Hecate,
Transported heard his voice.

And whilst he led the song divine,
The spectres all in chorus join;
Such was grim Pluto's will!
Tantalus quaff'd a flowing bowl,
Sisyphus ceas'd his stone to roll,
Ixion's wheel stood still.

His person, melody, and lyre
Set the infernal queen on fire,
Who courted him to stay;
But Pluto, to prevent all strife,
Order'd the poet, with his wife,
Back to the realms of day.

Joyful they speed for upper air;
When, to devide the happy pair,
Hecat' contriv'd a spell:
Now, now, she cry'd, in rapt'rous tone,
His harmony is all my own!
I'll make a heav'n in hell!

For me, and my Tartarean crew,
Endless the wanton song renew!
O ever touch the lyre!
But still the bard, in heav'nly lays,
Would sing his king's and maker's praise,
And kindle martial fire.

Enrag'd, the triple-headed dame
Howl'd, in a trice the Furies came,
Threatning a dreadful fate:
'Till Phaebus, with the tuneful Nine,
And lovely Graces, all combine
To shield him from their hate.

Thus sav'd from death, he shares the love
Of men below, and blest above,
The virtuous, brave, and wife;
While every chaste, and pious mind,
To vice averse, to good inclin'd,
Must Hecat's name despise.