Blame not heav'n,

      For heav'n is just and kind; dear Lady, drive

      These black ideas from your gentle breast;

      Fancy delights to torture the distress'd,

      And fill the gloomy scene with shadowy ills,

      Summon your reason, and you'll soon have comfort.

      Dost thou name comfort to me, my Cleone,

      Thou who know'st all my sorrows? plead no more,

      'Tis reason tells me I am doubly wretched.

      But hark, the music strikes, the rites begin,

      And, see, the doors are op'ning.

      Let's retire;

      My heart is now too full to meet him here,

      Fly swift ye hours, till in his arms I'm prest,

      And each intruding care is hush'd to rest.

      Parent of Light, to thee belong

      Our grateful tributary songs;

      Each thankful voice to thee shall rise,

      And chearful pierce the azure skies;

      While in thy praise all earth combines,

      And Echo in the Chorus joins.

      All the gay pride of blooming May,

      The Lily fair and blushing Rose,

      To thee their early honours pay,

      And all their heav'nly sweets disclose.

      The feather'd Choir on ev'ry tree

      To hail thy glorious dawn repair,

      While the sweet sons of harmony

      With Hallelujahs fill the air.

      'Tis thou hast brac'd the Hero's arm,

      And giv'n the Love of praise to warm

      His bosom, as he onward flies,

      And for his Country bravely dies.

      Thine's victory, and from thee springs

      Ambition's fire, which glows in Kings.

      Thus, to the Gods our tributary songs,

      And now, oh! let me welcome once again

      My blooming victor to his Father's arms;

      And let me thank thee for our safety: Parthia

      Shall thank thee too, and give her grateful praise

      To her Deliverer.

      All hail! Arsaces!

      Thanks to my loyal friends.

      Curse, curse the sound,

      E'en Echo gives it back with int'rest,