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PROMISCUOUS PIECES.

Section I.

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 Organs indispensable for the higher graces of Oratorical expression, than the following Ode of Collins'.

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,
Possess'd 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,
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-
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 her 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 withering look,

- The war denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;

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 unaltered mein; While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting from his head.

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
Hate.

With eyes up rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;

And from her wild sequestered 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 streams, with fond delay, (Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing)

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, 0, 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 eye'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.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; But, soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,

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,

To some 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 tresses seen, her zone unbound)
And he amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

Section II.

A TEA PARTY.

When the party commences, all starch'd and all glum,

They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum: They will tell you of ribbons, of cambric, of lace, How cheap they were sold-and will tell you the place.

They discourse of their colds, and they hem and they

cough,

And complain of their servants to pass the time off.
But TEA, that enlivener of wit and of soul,
More loquacious by far than the draughts of the bowl,
Soon loosens the tongue and enlivens the mind,
And enlightens their eyes to the faults of mankind.
It brings on the tapis their neighbour's defects, .
The faults of their friends, or their wilful neglects;
Reminds them of many a good-natur❜d tale
About those who are stylish and those who are frail,
'Till the sweet temper'd dames are converted by tea,
Into character-manglers-Gunaikophagi.
In harmless chit-chat an acquaintance they roast,
And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast.
Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake,
Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relish'd as cake :
A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust,
It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first
With a little affected good nature, and cry
Nobody regrets the thing deeper than I.

Ah ladies, and was it by Heaven design'd
That ye should be merciful, loving and kind!
Did it form you like angels and send you below;
To prophecy peace-to bid charity flow?

And have you thus left your primeval estate,
And wander so widely-so strangely of late?
Alas! the sad course I too plainly can see,
These evils have all come upon you through Tea.
Cursed weed, that can make your fair spirits resign
The character mild of their mission divine,

That can blot from their bosoms that tenderness true,
Which from female to female forever is due.

Oh how nice is the texture, how fragile the frame
Of that delicate blossom, a female's fair fame!
'Tis the sensitive plant, it recoils from the breath,
And shrinks from the touch as if pregnant with death.
How often, how often, has innocence sigh'd,
Has beauty been reft of its honour, its pride,
Has virtue, though pure as an angel of light,
Been painted as dark as a demon of night;
All offer'd up victims-an auto de fe,
At the gloomy cabals, the dark orgies of tea.
If I, in the remnant that's left me of life,
Am to suffer the torments of slanderous strife,
Let me fall, I implore, in the slang wanger's claw,
Where the evil is open, and subject to law.
Not nibbled and mumbled, and put to the rack,
By the sly undermining of tea party clack :
Condemn me, ye gods, to a newspaper roasting,
But spare me! oh spare me, a tea-table toasting!

Section III.

THE THREE BLACK CROWS, OR THE PROGRESS OF UNTRUTH.

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other, briskly, by the hand;
Hark-ye, says he, 'tis an odd story this,
About the crows!-I don't know what it is,
Reply'd his friend-No! I'm surpris'd at that ;
Where I come from it is the common chat:

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