By old Miletus* who fo long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong:
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern fhades:

By him †, whofe Knight's diftinguish'd name

Refin'd a nation's luft of fame;

Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet,

Caftilia's Moorish hills repeat:

Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,

In watchet weeds on Gallia's fhore,

Who drew the fad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her fire betray'd:

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 feal!

• Alluding to the Milefian tales, fome of the earliest ros

mances.

+ Cervantes.

Monfieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adven tures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year

Let fome retreating Cynic find

Thofe oft-turn'd fcrolls I leave behind,
The Sports aud I this hour agree,

To rove thy fcene-full world with thee!

THE

THE PASSIONS.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

Hen Mufic, heavenly maid, was young,

WH

While yet in early Greece fhe fung,

The Paffions oft, to hear her fhell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They fnatch'd her inftruments of found,

And as they oft had heard apart

Sweet leffons of her forceful art,

Each, for madness rul'd the hour,

Would prove his own expreffive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd he knew not why,

Even at the found himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his fecret ftings,
In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair-
Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits, by ftarts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair,
What was thy delighted measure?

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bad the lovely fcenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the ftrain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo ftill thro' all the fong;

་

And

And where her sweeteft theme she chofe,

A foft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted fmil'd, and wav'd her golden

hair.

And longer had fhe fung,-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rofe,

He threw his blood-ftain'd fword 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 founds fo full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And tho' fometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her foul-fubduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each ftrain'd ball of fight feem'd burfting

from his head.

F 2

Thy