English poem
THE CHARMS of MELODY, SONG 66
by Anonymous
When all the Attic fire was fled, And all the Roman virtue dead, Poor freedom lost her seat. The gothic mantle spread a night, That damp'd fair virtue's fading light: The muses lost their mate.
Where should they wander? what new shore Has yet a laurel left n store? To this blest land they steer. Soon the Parnassian choir was heard— Soon virtue's sacred form appear'd, And freedom soon was here.
The lazy monk has left his cell: Religion rings her hallow'd bell; She calls thee now by me. Hark! her sweet voice all plaintive sounds: See, she receives a thousand wounds, If shielded nor by thee.