Sung in the Opera of Eliza

When all the Attic fire was fled, And all the Roman virtue dead, Poor freedom lost her seat. Poor freedom lost her seat. The Gothic mantle spread the night, That damp'd fair virtue's fading light. The muses lost their mate. The muses lost their mate. Where should they wander, Where should they wander. What new shore Had yet a laurel left in store. To this blest isle they steer, To this blest isle they steer. Soon the Parnassan choir was heard, Soon Virtue's sacred form appear'd, And freedom soon was here, And freedom soon was here. The lazy Monk has lost his cell, Religion rings her hollow bell, She calls thee now by me, She calls thee now by me. Hark, hark, hark, her voice all plaintive sounds, See, see, see, she receives a thousand wounds. If shielded not by thee. If shielded not by thee.