Fair Rival to the God of Day, Beauty to thy Celestial Ray A thousand sprightly Fruits we owe: Gay Wit, and moving Eloquence, And ev'ry Art to improve the Sense, And ev'ry Grace that shines below. Not Phoebus does our Songs inspire, Nor did Cyllenius form the Lyre, 'Tis thou art Musick's living Spring. Not Phoebus . . . Beauty, 'tis thou . . . To thee the Poet tunes his Lays, And sweetly warbling Beauty's praise, Describes the Pow'r that makes him Sing. To thee the Poet . . . Not Phoebus does our Songs inspire Not Phoebus . . . Beauty, 'tis thou . . . Painters from thee their Skill derive; By thee their works to Ages live, For e'en thy Shadows give Surprise. As when we View in chrystal Streams The morning Sun and rising Beams, That seem to Shoot from other Skies. Enchanting Vision, who can be Unmov'd that turns his Eyes on thee? Enchanting Vision . . . Yet brighter still thy Glories shine, And double Charms thy Pow'r improve, When Beauty drest in Smiles of Love, Grows like its Parent, Heav'n, divine. Yet brighter still thy Glories shine . . . Enchanting Vision, who can be Unmov'd that turns his Eyes on thee?
- by John Hughes (1677 - 1720) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
Researcher for this text: John Versmoren
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 32
Word count: 210