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“.." Section 1. ! COLLINS’ ODE ON THE PASSIONS. Few productions of genius are to be found in the English Language, the recital of which is better calculated for that Exercise and preparation of the Or-. gans indispensable for the higher graces of Oratorical expression, than the following Ode of Collins'.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ;
Even 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 hurry'd hands, the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair
' 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 haik. Still would her touch the strain prolong;....
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, i She call’d on echo still through all her song; openi
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 : . : ;in
And longer had she sung—but, with a frown
Revenge impatient rose.
And, with a withering look,
? Her soul subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mein ; While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting
from his head. i
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ; *
Sad proof of thy distressful state. Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd :. And, now, it courted Love ; now, raving call'd on
With eyes up rais'd, as one inspir'd,
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 streams, with fond delay, * (Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing)
But, 0, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
Queen, . .
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw, in Temple's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound) And he amid his frolic play,
And have you thus left your primeval estate, . .
If I, in the remnant that's left me of life,
Condemn me, ye gods, to a newspaper roasting, : But spare me! oh spáre me, a tea-table toasting !
THE THREE BLACK CROWS, OR THE
PROGRESS OF UNTRUTH.
Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,