Слике страница

And where her sweetest theme the chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry 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 fur'ous heat;
And though fometimes, each dreary pause be-

Dejected pity at his side

Her foul-fubduing voice apply'd,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain’d ball of fight seem'd bursting

from his head. Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to nought were fix’d,

Sad proof of thy distressful state,
Of diff'ring themes the veering long was mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving callid on
With eyes up-rais’d, as one inspir'd,
Pale MELANCHOLY fate 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 found; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure

stole, Or o'er fome haunted streams with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffufing,

Love of peace and lonely muling, In hollow murmurs dy'd away.


But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When CHEERFULNESS, a nymph of healthiest hue!

Her bow across her shoulder ilung,
Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,

Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to fawn and dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and theirchafte-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. Laft came Joy's ecstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brilk-awak’ning viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal founding shades,
To fome unweary'd minstrel dancing :
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love fram'd with MIRTH a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her treffes 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, fphere-descended maid,
Friend of PLEASURE, WISDOM's aid,
Why, goddess, why to us deny'd ?
Lay'ft thou thy ancient lyre afide?
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r
You learn'd in all commanding pow'r;
Thy mimic soul, 0 nymph endear'd,
Can well recal what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chafie, fublime ?
Thy wonders in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording lifier's page--

'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humbleft reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of found
O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of GREECE ;
Return in all thy fimple ftate!
Confirm the tales her fons relate!

THE WINTER'S DAY. WHEN raging storms deform the air,

And clouds of snow descend; And the wide landscape bright and fair,

No deepen'd colours blend : When biting frost rides on the wind,

Bleak from the north and east, And wealth is at its ease reclin'd,

Prepar'd to laugh and feaft: When the poor trav’ller treads the plain,

All dubious of his way, And crawls with night-encreafing pain,

And dreads the parting day: When Poverty in vile attire,

Shrinks from the biting blast,
Or hovers o'er the pigmy fire,

And fears it will not last :
When the fond mother hugs her child

Still closer to her breast,
And the poor infant, frost-beguil'd,

Scarce feels that it is prest:
Then let the bounteous hand extend

Its blessings to the poor,
Nor spurn the wretched while they bend

All Tuppliant at your door,

THOU, to whom the world unknown,

With all its shadowy shapes is shewn;
Who fee'st appallid th’unreal scene,
While FÁNCY lifts the veil between :

Ah, FEAR! ah, frantic FEAR!

I fee-I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye! Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly, For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mould, What mortal eye can fix'd behold? Who stalks his round, an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to Neep: And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind: And those, the fiends, who near allied, O’er nature's wounds and wrecks preside; While VENG’ANCE, in the lucid air, Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare : On whom the rav’ning brood of fate, Who lap the blood of forrow, wait; Who, FEAR, this ghasily train can see, And look not madly-wild, like thee? In earliest GREECE, to thee, with partial choice,

The grief-full mufe addreft her infant tongue ; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the bard who first invok'd thy name,

Disdain’d in Marathon its pow'r to feel : For not alone he nurs’d the poet's flame,

But reach'd from virtue's hand the patriot's ftcel. But who is he whom later garlands grace,

Who left awhile o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grave!

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil th’incest'ous queen,

Sigh'd the fad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the filent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd. O FEAR, I know thee by my throbbing heart,

Thy with’ring pow'r inspir'd each mournful line, Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.

Thou who such weary length has past, Where wilt thou reft, mad nymph, at last? Say, wilt thou Shroud in haunted cell, Where gloomy rape and murder dwell? Or, in fome hollow'd seat, 'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning teamen's cries in tempests brought! Dark pow'r, with fhudd'ring meek submitted

Be mine, to read th' visions old,
Which thy awak’ning bards have told.

And, lest thou meet my blafted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou, whose spirit most poffeft
The sacred seat of SHAKSPEARE's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel :
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, 'O FEAR, will dwell with thee!

« ПретходнаНастави »