And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien; While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, Hate. With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measures stole Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. D WILLIAM COLLINS THE PASSIONS. An Ode for Music. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, From the supporting myrtles round Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings, With woeful measures, wan Despair, But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. The doubling drum with furious heat; ́ And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien; While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, Hate. With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measures stole Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters,and their chaste-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leap'd up, and siez'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, As if he would the charming air repay, O Music, sphere-descended maid, Thy wonders, in that godlike age, ODE TO FEAR. THOU, to whom the world unknown, I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye! |