mankind. Neglecting, therefore, all traditions or rather tales, concerning the more early history of Britain, we shall only consider the state of the inhabitants as it appeared to the Romans 30 on their invasion of this country: we shall briefly run over the events which attended the conquest made by that empire, as belonging more to Roman than British story: we shall hasten through the obscure and uninteresting period of Saxon annals: and shall reserve a more full narration for those times, when the 35 truth is both so well ascertained, and so complete, as to promise entertainment and instruction to the reader.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

THE PASSIONS.

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 ruled 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,

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,

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd, –

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A solemn, strange, and mingl'd air;

'Twas sad by fits, 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:

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!

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 up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

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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.

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 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,
Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

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,
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:

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,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?

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As, in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
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,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page—
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled word of sound:
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!