Classic Poem

TO THE BRITISH ENCHANTERS .

When Orpheus tun'd his lyre with pleasing woe,
Rivers forgot to run and winds to blow,
While list'ning sorests cover'd, as he play'd,
The soft musician in a moving shade.
That this night's strains the same success may find,
The force of music is to music join'd;
Where sounding strings and artful voices fail,
The charming rod and mutter'd spells prevail.
Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand
On barren mountains or a waste of sand,
The desert smiles, the woods begin to grow,
The birds to warble, and the springs to flow.
The same dull sights in the same landscape mix'd,
Scenes of still life, and points for ever fix'd,
A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow,
And pall the sense with one continu'd show:
But as our two magicians try their skill,
The vision varies, tho' the place stands still,
While the same spot its gaudy form renews,
Shifting the prospect to a thousand views.
Thus (without unity of place transgrest)
Th' Enchanter turns the critic to a jest.
But howsoe'er, to please your wand'ring eyes,
Bright objects disappear and brighter rise,
There's none can make amends for lost delight,
While from that circle we divert your sight.