Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought were fix'd, Of differing themes the veering fong 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 fat retir'd, And from her wild fequefter'd feat, In notes by distance made more fweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her penfive foul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the found; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er fome haunted ftreams with fond delay, Love of peace, and lonely mufing, In hollow murmurs died away. But But O, how alter'd was its fprightlier tone! Her bufkins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an infpiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The oak-crown'd Sifters, and their chafte-eyed Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercife rejoic'd to hear, [queen, And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear, Laft came Joy's ecftatic trial, He with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But foon he faw the brifk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best: They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids, To fome unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kifs'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, As if he would the charming air repay, O Mufic, fphere-defcended maid, Warm, energic, chafte, fublime! Thy Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Thy humbleft Reed could more prevail, ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS Hile born to bring the Mufe's happier days, WHil A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays, While nurs'd by you fhe fees her myrtles bloom, Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb : With conscious awe fhe hears the critic's fame, Fach |