* To some Contempt applies her glass; Me too amidst thy band admit; There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit, Are plac'd each other's beams to share; By old Miletus,* who so long Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet, Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances. + Cervantes. Or him 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. O Nature boon, from whom proceed. On all my heart imprint thy seal! Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind: To rove thy scene-full world with thee! * Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil s de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745. G THE PASSIONS: AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, From the supporting myrtles round 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, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd: his eyes on fire, With woful measures wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air: 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 : He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, down: And, with a with'ring look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo! And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; Her soul-subduing voice applied, 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 diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. With eyes up-rais'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, Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. |