ODES.
Reading edition
ODE TO PITY.
O thou, the friend of man, assign’d With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe: When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his destined scene, 5 His wild unsated foe! By Pella’s[13] bard, a magic name, By all the griefs his thought could frame, Receive my humble rite: Long, Pity, let the nations view 10 The sky-worn robes of tenderest blue, And eyes of dewy light! But wherefore need I wander wide To old Ilissus’ distant side, Deserted stream, and mute? 15 Wild Arun[14] too has heard thy strains, And Echo, ’midst my native plains, Been soothed by Pity’s lute. There first the wren thy myrtles shed On gentlest Otway’s infant head, 20 To him thy cell was shown; And while he sung the female heart, With youth’s soft notes unspoil’d by art, Thy turtles mix’d their own. Come, Pity, come, by Fancy’s aid, 25 E’en now my thoughts, relenting maid, Thy temple’s pride design: Its southern site, its truth complete, Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat In all who view the shrine. 30 There Picture’s toils shall well relate How chance, or hard involving fate, O’er mortal bliss prevail: The buskin’d Muse shall near her stand, And sighing prompt her tender hand, 35 With each disastrous tale. There let me oft, retired by day, In dreams of passion melt away, Allow’d with thee to dwell: There waste the mournful lamp of night, 40 Till, Virgin, thou again delight To hear a British shell!
ODE TO FEAR.
Thou, to whom the world unknown, With all its shadowy shapes, is shown; Who seest, appall’d, the unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veil between: Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear! 5 I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye! Like thee I start; like thee disorder’d fly. For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mould 10 What mortal eye can fix’d behold? Who stalks his round, an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm; Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep: 15 And with him thousand phantoms join’d, Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind: And those, the fiends, who, near allied, O’er Nature’s wounds, and wrecks, preside; Whilst Vengeance, in the lurid air, 20 Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare: On whom that ravening[15] brood of Fate, Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait: Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee! 25 EPODE. In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice, The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice, Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the bard[16] who first invoked thy name, 30 Disdain’d in Marathon its power to feel: For not alone he nursed the poet’s flame, But reach’d from Virtue’s hand the patriot’s steel. But who is he whom later garlands grace, Who left a while o’er Hybla’s dews to rove, 35 With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove? Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, the incestuous[17] queen Sigh’d the sad call[18] her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene, 40 And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear’d. O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart: Thy withering power inspired each mournful line: Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine! 45 ANTISTROPHE. Thou who such weary lengths hast past, Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last? Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? Or, in some hollow’d seat, 50 ’Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen’s cries, in tempests brought? Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought, Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awakening bards have told: 55 And, lest thou meet my blasted view, Hold each strange tale devoutly true; Ne’er be I found, by thee o’erawed, In that thrice hallow’d eve, abroad, When ghosts, as cottage maids believe, 60 Their pebbled beds permitted leave; And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen, Or mine, or flood, the walks of men! O thou, whose spirit most possest The sacred seat of Shakespeare’s breast! 65 By all that from thy prophet broke, In thy divine emotions spoke; Hither again thy fury deal, Teach me but once like him to feel: His cypress wreath my meed decree, 70 And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!
ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
O thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought, In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; Who first, on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child, 5 Thy babe, or Pleasure’s, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who, with hermit heart, Disdain’st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall; But com’st a decent maid, 10 In attic robe array’d, O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call! By all the honey’d store On Hybla’s thymy shore; By all her blooms, and mingled murmurs dear; 15 By her[19] whose lovelorn woe, In evening musings slow, Soothed sweetly sad Electra’s poet’s ear: By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep, 20 In warbled wanderings, round thy green retreat; On whose enamel’d side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allured thy future feet. O sister meek of Truth, 25 To my admiring youth, Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! The flowers that sweetest breathe, Though Beauty cull’d the wreath, Still ask thy hand to range their order’d hues. 30 While Rome could none esteem But virtue’s patriot theme, You lov’d her hills, and led her laureat band: But staid to sing alone To one distinguish’d throne; 35 And turn’d thy face, and fled her alter’d land. No more, in hall or bower, The Passions own thy power, Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean: For thou hast left her shrine; 40 Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius, bless To some divine excess, Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; 45 What each, what all supply, May court, may charm, our eye; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul! Of these let others ask, To aid some mighty task, 50 I only seek to find thy temperate vale; Where oft my reed might sound To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.
ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.
As once,––if, not with light regard, I read aright that gifted bard, ––Him whose school above the rest His loveliest elfin queen has blest;–– She then shall dress a sweeter sod One, only one, unrival’d[20] fair, 5 Might hope the magic girdle wear, By hands unseen the knell is rung; At solemn turney hung on high, By fairy forms their dirge is sung; The wish of each love-darting eye; ––Lo! to each other nymph, in turn, applied, As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, 10 Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame, With whisper’d spell had burst the starting band, It left unblest her loathed dishonour’d side; Happier, hopeless Fair, if never Her baffled hand, with vain endeavour, 15 Had touch’d that fatal zone to her denied! Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, To whom, prepared and bathed in heaven, The cest of amplest power is given: To few the godlike gift assigns, 20 To gird their blest prophetic loins, And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix’d her flame! The band, as fairy legends say, Was wove on that creating day, When He, who call’d with thought to birth 25 Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, And dress’d with springs and forests tall, And pour’d the main engirting all, Long by the loved enthusiast woo’d, Himself in some diviner mood, 30 Retiring, sat with her alone, And placed her on his sapphire throne; The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, Seraphic wires were heard to sound, Now sublimest triumph swelling, 35 Now on love and mercy dwelling; And she, from out the veiling cloud, Breathed her magic notes aloud: And thou, thou rich-hair’d youth of morn, And all thy subject life was born! 40 The dangerous passions kept aloof, Far from the sainted growing woof: But near it sat ecstatic Wonder, Listening the deep applauding thunder; And Truth, in sunny vest array’d, 45 By whose the tarsel’s eyes were made; All the shadowy tribes of mind, In braided dance, their murmurs join’d, And all the bright uncounted powers Who feed on heaven’s ambrosial flowers. 50 ––Where is the bard whose soul can now Its high presuming hopes avow? Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, This hallow’d work for him design’d? High on some cliff, to heaven up-piled, 55 Of rude access, of prospect wild, Where, tangled round the jealous steep, Strange shades o’erbrow the valleys deep, And holy Genii guard the rock, Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, 60 While on its rich ambitious head, An Eden, like his own, lies spread: I view that oak, the fancied glades among, By which, as Milton lay, his evening ear, From many a cloud that dropp’d ethereal dew, 65 Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could hear; On which that ancient trump he reach’d was hung: Thither oft, his glory greeting, From Waller’s myrtle shades retreating, With many a vow from Hope’s aspiring tongue, 70 My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue; In vain––Such bliss to one alone, Of all the sons of soul, was known; And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers, Have now o’erturn’d the inspiring bowers; 75 Or curtain’d close such scene from every future view.
ODE,
WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country’s wishes bless’d! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, She then shall dress a sweeter sod She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. By hands unseen the knell is rung; By fairy hands their knell is rung; By fairy forms their dirge is sung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim-gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10 And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
ODE TO MERCY.
STROPHE. O Thou, who sitt’st a smiling bride By Valour’s arm’d and awful side, Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best adored; Who oft with songs, divine to hear, Winn’st from his fatal grasp the spear, 5 And hidest in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword! Thou who, amidst the deathful field, By godlike chiefs alone beheld, Oft with thy bosom bare art found, Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground: 10 See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands, Before thy shrine my country’s genius stands, And decks thy altar still, though pierced with many a wound. ANTISTROPHE. When he whom even our joys provoke, The fiend of nature join’d his yoke, 15 And rush’d in wrath to make our isle his prey; Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O’ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp’d his wheels, and look’d his rage away. I see recoil his sable steeds, 20 That bore him swift to salvage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own; O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown, Where Justice bars her iron tower, To thee we build a roseate bower; 25 Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch’s throne!
ODE TO LIBERTY.
STROPHE. Who shall awake the Spartan fife, And call in solemn sounds to life, The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue, At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, 5 Applauding Freedom loved of old to view? What new Alcæus,[21] fancy-blest, Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest, At Wisdom’s shrine awhile its flame concealing, (What place so fit to seal a deed renown’d?) 10 Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, It leap’d in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound! O goddess, in that feeling hour, When most its sounds would court thy ears, Let not my shell’s misguided power[22] 15 E’er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. No, Freedom, no, I will not tell How Rome, before thy weeping face, With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell, Push’d by a wild and artless race 20 From off its wide ambitious base, When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, And all the blended work of strength and grace, With many a rude repeated stroke, And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke. 25 EPODE. Yet, even where’er the least appear’d, The admiring world thy hand revered; Still, ’midst the scatter’d states around, Some remnants of her strength were found; They saw, by what escaped the storm, 30 How wondrous rose her perfect form; How in the great, the labour’d whole, Each mighty master pour’d his soul! For sunny Florence, seat of art, Beneath her vines preserved a part, 35 Till they,[23] whom Science loved to name, (O who could fear it?) quench’d her flame. And lo, an humbler relic laid In jealous Pisa’s olive shade! See small Marino[24] joins the theme, 40 Though least, not last in thy esteem: Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings To those,[25] whose merchant sons were kings; To him,[26] who, deck’d with pearly pride, In Adria weds his green-hair’d bride; 45 Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure, Ne’er let me change this Lydian measure: Nor e’er her former pride relate, To sad Liguria’s[27] bleeding state. Ah no! more pleased thy haunts I seek, 50 On wild Helvetia’s[28] mountains bleak: (Where, when the favour’d of thy choice, The daring archer heard thy voice; Forth from his eyrie roused in dread, The ravening eagle northward fled:) 55 Or dwell in willow’d meads more near, With those to whom thy stork[29] is dear: Those whom the rod of Alva bruised, Whose crown a British queen[30] refused! The magic works, thou feel’st the strains, 60 One holier name alone remains; The perfect spell shall then avail, Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail! ANTISTROPHE. Beyond the measure vast of thought, The works the wizard time has wrought! 65 The Gaul, ’tis held of antique story, Saw Britain link’d to his now adverse strand,[31] No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary, He pass’d with unwet feet through all our land. To the blown Baltic then, they say, 70 The wild waves found another way, Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; Till all the banded west at once ’gan rise, A wide wild storm even nature’s self confounding, Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise. 75 This pillar’d earth so firm and wide, By winds and inward labours torn, In thunders dread was push’d aside, And down the shouldering billows borne. And see, like gems, her laughing train, 80 The little isles on every side, Mona,[32] once hid from those who search the main, Where thousand elfin shapes abide, And Wight who checks the westering tide, For thee consenting heaven has each bestow’d, 85 A fair attendant on her sovereign pride: To thee this blest divorce she owed, For thou hast made her vales thy loved, thy last abode! SECOND EPODE. Then too, ’tis said, an hoary pile, ’Midst the green navel of our isle, 90 Thy shrine in some religious wood, O soul-enforcing goddess, stood! There oft the painted native’s feet Were wont thy form celestial meet: Though now with hopeless toil we trace 95 Time’s backward rolls, to find its place; Whether the fiery-tresséd Dane, Or Roman’s self o’erturn’d the fane, Or in what heaven-left age it fell, ’Twere hard for modern song to tell. 100 Yet still, if Truth those beams infuse, Which guide at once, and charm the Muse, Beyond yon braided clouds that lie, Paving the light embroider’d sky, Amidst the bright pavilion’d plains, 105 The beauteous model still remains. There, happier than in islands blest, Or bowers by spring or Hebe drest, The chiefs who fill our Albion’s story, In warlike weeds, retired in glory, 110 Hear their consorted Druids sing Their triumphs to the immortal string. How may the poet now unfold What never tongue or numbers told? How learn delighted, and amazed, 115 What hands unknown that fabric raised? Even now before his favour’d eyes, In gothic pride, it seems to rise! Yet Græcia’s graceful orders join, Majestic through the mix’d design: 120 The secret builder knew to choose Each sphere-found gem of richest hues; Whate’er heaven’s purer mould contains, When nearer suns emblaze its veins; There on the walls the patriot’s sight 125 May ever hang with fresh delight, And, graved with some prophetic rage, Read Albion’s fame through every age. Ye forms divine, ye laureat band, That near her inmost altar stand! 130 Now soothe her to her blissful train Blithe Concord’s social form to gain; Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep Even Anger’s bloodshot eyes in sleep; Before whose breathing bosom’s balm 135 Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm: Her let our sires and matrons hoar Welcome to Briton’s ravaged shore; Our youths, enamour’d of the fair, Play with the tangles of her hair, 140 Till, in one loud applauding sound, The nations shout to her around, O how supremely art thou blest, Thou, lady––thou shalt rule the west!
ODE TO A LADY,
ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL ROSS, IN THE ACTION OF FONTENOY. Written in May, 1745.
While, lost to all his former mirth, Britannia’s genius bends to earth, And mourns the fatal day: While sunk in grief he strives to tear While stain’d with blood he strives to tear Unseemly from his sea-green hair 5 The wreaths of cheerful May: The thoughts which musing Pity pays, And fond Remembrance loves to raise, Your faithful hours attend; Still Fancy, to herself unkind, 10 Awakes to grief the soften’d mind, And points the bleeding friend. By rapid Scheld’s descending wave His country’s vows shall bless the grave, Where’er the youth is laid: 15 That sacred spot the village hind With every sweetest turf shall bind, And Peace protect the shade. E’en now regardful of his doom Applauding Honour haunts his tomb, With shadowy trophies crown’d: Whilst Freedom’s form beside her roves, Majestic through the twilight groves, And calls her heroes round. 2nd variation of Verse 19 O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve, Aërial forms shall sit at eve, And bend the pensive head; And, fallen to save his injured land, Imperial Honour’s awful hand Shall point his lonely bed. Blest youth, regardful of thy doom, Aërial hands shall build thy tomb, 20 With shadowy trophies crown’d; Whilst Honour bathed in tears shall rove To sigh thy name through every grove, And call his heroes round. The warlike dead of every age, 25 Who fill the fair recording page, Shall leave their sainted rest; And, half reclining on his spear, Each wondering chief by turns appear, To hail the blooming guest: 30 Old Edward’s sons, untaught to yield, Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy’s laurel’d field, And gaze with fix’d delight; Again for Britain’s wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 35 And wish the avenging fight. But lo, where, sunk in deep despair, Her garments torn, her bosom bare, Impatient Freedom lies! Her matted tresses madly spread, 40 To every sod, which wraps the dead, She turns her joyless eyes. Ne’er shall she leave that lowly ground Till notes of triumph bursting round Proclaim her reign restored: 45 Till William seek the sad retreat, And, bleeding at her sacred feet, Present the sated sword. If, drawn by all a lover’s art, If, weak to soothe so soft a heart, These pictured glories nought impart, 50 To dry thy constant tear: If, yet, in Sorrow’s distant eye, Exposed and pale thou see’st him lie, Wild War insulting near: Where’er from time thou court’st relief, 55 The Muse shall still, with social grief, Her gentlest promise keep; Even humble Harting’s cottaged vale Even humbled Harting’s cottaged vale[33] Shall learn the sad repeated tale, And bid her shepherds weep. 60
ODE TO EVENING.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Like thy own brawling springs, Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun 5 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O’erhang his wavy bed: While air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 10 Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: Now teach me, maid composed, 15 To breathe some soften’d strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! 20 For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in flowers the day, Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 25 And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin, ’midst its dreary dells, 30 Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut, Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, That, from the mountain’s side, 35 Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. 40 While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 45 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp’d Health, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy favourite name! So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 50 Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name!
ODE TO PEACE.
O thou, who bad’st thy turtles bear Swift from his grasp thy golden hair, And sought’st thy native skies; When War, by vultures drawn from far, To Britain bent his iron car, 5 And bade his storms arise! Tired of his rude tyrannic sway, Our youth shall fix some festive day, His sullen shrines to burn: But thou who hear’st the turning spheres, 10 What sounds may charm thy partial ears, And gain thy blest return! O Peace, thy injured robes up-bind! O rise! and leave not one behind Of all thy beamy train; 15 The British Lion, goddess sweet, Lies stretch’d on earth to kiss thy feet, And own thy holier reign. Let others court thy transient smile, But come to grace thy western isle, 20 By warlike Honour led; And, while around her ports rejoice, While all her sons adore thy choice, With him for ever wed!
THE MANNERS.
AN ODE.
Farewell, for clearer ken design’d, The dim-discover’d tracts of mind; Truths which, from action’s paths retired, My silent search in vain required! No more my sail that deep explores; 5 No more I search those magic shores; What regions part the world of soul, Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll: If e’er I round such fairy field, Some power impart the spear and shield, 10 At which the wizard Passions fly; By which the giant Follies die! Farewell the porch whose roof is seen Arch’d with the enlivening olive’s green: Where Science, prank’d in tissued vest, 15 By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest, Comes, like a bride, so trim array’d, To wed with Doubt in Plato’s shade! Youth of the quick uncheated sight, Thy walks, Observance, more invite! 20 O thou who lovest that ampler range, Where life’s wide prospects round thee change, And, with her mingling sons allied, Throw’st the prattling page aside, To me, in converse sweet, impart 25 To read in man the native heart; To learn, where Science sure is found, From Nature as she lives around; And, gazing oft her mirror true, By turns each shifting image view! 30 Till meddling Art’s officious lore Reverse the lessons taught before; Alluring from a safer rule, To dream in her enchanted school: Thou, Heaven, whate’er of great we boast, 35 Hast blest this social science most. Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell, Not vain she finds the charmful task, In pageant quaint, in motley mask; 40 Behold, before her musing eyes, The countless Manners round her rise; While, ever varying as they pass, To some Contempt applies her glass: With these the white-robed maids combine; 45 And those the laughing satyrs join! But who is he whom now she views, In robe of wild contending hues? Thou by the Passions nursed, I greet The comic sock that binds thy feet! 50 O Humour, thou whose name is known To Britain’s favour’d isle alone: Me too amidst thy band admit; There where the young-eyed healthful Wit, (Whose jewels in his crispéd hair 55 Are placed each other’s beams to share; Whom no delights from thee divide) In laughter loosed, attends thy side. By old Miletus,[34] who so long Has ceased his love-inwoven song; 60 By all you taught the Tuscan maids, In changed Italia’s modern shades; By him[35] whose knight’s distinguish’d name Refined a nation’s lust of fame; Whose tales e’en now, with echoes sweet, 65 Castilia’s Moorish hills repeat; Or him[36] whom Seine’s blue nymphs deplore, In watchet weeds on Gallia’s shore; Who drew the sad Sicilian maid, By virtues in her sire betray’d. 70 O Nature boon, from whom proceed Each forceful thought, each prompted deed; If but from thee I hope to feel, On all my heart imprint thy seal! Let some retreating cynic find 75 Those oft-turn’d scrolls I leave behind: The Sports and I this hour agree, To rove thy scene-full world with thee!
THE PASSIONS.
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
Performed at Oxford, with Hayes’s music, in 1750.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng’d around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 5 Possest beyond the Muse’s painting: By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined; Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired, Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspired, 10 From the supporting myrtles round They snatch’d her instruments of sound; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 15 Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder’d laid, And back recoil’d, he knew not why, E’en at the sound himself had made. 20 Next Anger rush’d; his eyes on fire, In lightnings own’d his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan Despair 25 Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; ’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? What was thy delighted measure? 30 Still it whisper’d promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call’d on Echo still, through all the song; 35 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung;––but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: 40 He threw his blood-stain’d sword, in thunder, down; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of woe! 45 And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, 50 Yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mein, While each strain’d ball of sight seem’d bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix’d; Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mix’d; 55 And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sate retired; And, from her wild sequester’d seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, 60 Pour’d through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join’d the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o’er some haunted stream, with fond delay, 65 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, 70 Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter’s call, to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crown’d Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 75 Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial: 80 He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best; They would have thought who heard the strain 85 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 framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: 90 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid, 95 Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid! Why, goddess! why, to us denied, Lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As, in that loved Athenian bower, You learn’d an all commanding power, 100 Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear’d, Can well recall what then it heard; Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? Arise, as in that elder time, 105 Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders, in that godlike age, Fill thy recording Sister’s page–– ’Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 110 Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age; E’en all at once together found, Cecilia’s mingled world of sound–– O bid our vain endeavours cease; 115 Revive the just designs of Greece: Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate!