Symphony II. the Defeat of the Opera

She said and smiled. At Fancy's high command Taste left the British strand, The Phantom to explore On fair Ausonia's romantic shore. The shield of Truth he bore; But ere its potent virtue he unveiled, Thus with stern speech her leaden ear assailed.

Daughter of Dulness, from the happy fields Of Albion I come and bear thy doom; No longer hope with tuneful sorcery To witch the vulgar ear. Fled is the time When Superstition spread primeval night O'er all the nations: when sweet Poesy Muttered her vigils from the cloystered cell: As by the moon's pale lamp the ruddy monk And nun lascivious met with ardent vows Saint Venus, chief religion of their choir. Why then, thou birth of that detested day, Should honour's robe vest thy fantastic state? Why still thy lying pride (thy pride is great!) The homage bear of many a dull domain? Declare the cause, thou spectre! speak and die.

To him the Power, (but first an air was heard) Within her breast tho' dull, her breast tho' dark, Revolving thoughts of seeming argument, Framed her reply. I know thee and my fate! Yet ere thou seal my meditated fall Attend my speech that, wove with sighs and tears, Slow finds its mournful way. On classic days On classic days tho' fallen and critic tongues, Just is my rule and ancient. When fair Greece Nurtured each art of elegance, the lyre Aided the hero's sorrows. From fair Greece My regal forms, arrayed in pomp and gold, That sing, and singing in their glory move,, Derive their lineage. That plea refused (For Nonsense as more old grows more deformed) Yet merit in my sons may move thy mind. Did not Quinault with sweetest ease devote His sprightly verses to adorn my pomp, That Lulli with the soul of music gave To flutter round the captivated heart Of amorous damsels on the banks of Seine? Where chief my temple rises in full blaze Illumed, while silken peers and silken dames Of painted beauty feed their wondering sight With all the magic of the moving scene. Lo Metastasio, my joy and pride, With pleasing care the golden anvil tries Of calm Correction, and with rhymes annealed Of purest splendor decks my gorgeous shrine. Nay, yielding that my art is false and vain, Not small their cause; for well a bard has sung Great beauty is a great excuse to sin. And who of all the race of Poesy With more enchantment fills the raptured soul?

When like a simple shepherdess I tread the flowery plain, Tuning my pipe to slender strain The labours of the swain to bless:

Or when with solemn tones and slow The gilded palace I pervade, And sadly chaunt the funeral tale Of kings, that from the stroke of woe The panoply of gold to shade And serried guards could nought avail.

Feebly the spoke with fading mien. For Taste, Who suffers no appeal, had now revealed The shining orb of Truth, that blasts anon All false and empty with celestial light. Oblivion bore her to her silent cell; And dire shrieks rose from many an echo wild.