OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,

When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

U

No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went;
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent:

He lov'd them both, but both in vain;
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the 'whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away:

But wag'd with death a lasting strife,

Supported by despair of life.

He shouted;-nor his friends had fail'd

To check the vessel's course; But so the furious blast prevail'd,

That, pitiless, perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;
And such as storms allow,

The cask, the coup, the floated cord
Delay'd not to bestow :

But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more,

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn;
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die, ́
Deserted, and his friends so nigh!

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self upheld:

And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd:

And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere

That tells his name, his worth, his

age,

Is wet with Anson's tear:
And tears, by bards or heroes shed,
Alike immortalize the dead,

I therefore purpose not, nor dream,
Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace
Its 'semblance in another's case,

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each, alone;

But I, beneath a rougher sea.

And whelp'd in deeper gulphs than he!

THE PASSIONS.

An Ode for Music.

COLLINS.

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,
Possest beyond the muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind,
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
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 rul'd the hour,
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,
Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In light'nings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair

Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by tits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd 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; 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, Revenge impatient rose,

Ile 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!
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;

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,
Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on
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 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,