Be hush'd as Death, Moneses sings,
Moneses strikes the sounding Strings;
Let sacred Silence dwell around,
And nought disturb the Magick Sound;
Let not the softly whisp'ring Breeze
Sob amidst the rustling Trees;
Murmur, ye plaintive Streams, no more,
But glide in Silence to the Shore:
Even Philomel thy Note suspend,
And to a sweeter Song attend;
Ah! soft, ah! dang'rous, pow'rful Charm,
An Angel's Voice, an Angel's Form;
Attentive to the heav'nly Lay,
I hear and gaze my Soul away;
Now tender Wishes, melting Fires,
Infant Pains, and young Desires,
Steal into my softned Soul,
And bend it to the sweet Controul;
Yet, let me fly, e'er 'tis too late,
The sweet Disease, and shun my Fate.
But ah! that softly, dying Strain
Arrests my Steps, I strive in yain.
Again I to the Syren turn,
Again with gentle Fires I burn;
Cease lovely Youth th' inchanting Sound,
Too deep already is the Wound;
Thro' all my Veins the Poison steals,
My Heart the dear Infection feels:
I faint, I die, by love opprest,
The Sigh scarce heaves my panting Breast;
Before my View dim Shadows rise,
And hides Thee from my ravish'd Eyes:
Thy Voice, like distant Sounds, I hear,
It dies in murmurs on my Ear:
In the too pow'rful Transport tost,
Ev'n Thought, and ev'ry Sense is lost.