By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades;
By him whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refin❜d a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castalia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him3 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
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,

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,
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 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,
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; A solemn, strange, and mingled 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 with'ring 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 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.

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-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.