By all you taught the Tuscan maids, Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet, Or him3 whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore, 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! Let some retreating Cynic find Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind: The Sports and I this hour agree, To rove thy scene-full world with thee! 2 Cervantes. 3 Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745. THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for Madness rul'd the hour) First Fear his hand, its skill to try, And back recoil'd he knew not why, 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; "Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 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, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! The doubling drum, with furious heat; Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd; Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd; 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. But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone 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-ey'd Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. |