First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measures wan Despair, Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! 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 smiled, and waved 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; 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, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 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; With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; 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 Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, 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 oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: To some unwearied minstrel dancing; 297 Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: As if he would the charming air repay, O Music! sphere-descended maid, TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserved,-while now the bright-hair'd sun O'erhang his wavy bed, Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, To breathe some soften'd strain Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow I hail For when thy folding-star arising shows Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blustering winds or driving rain That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds and swelling floods, 298 And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires; The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy favourite name! GEORGE SEWELL THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN WHY, Damon, with the forward day What do thy noontide walks avail, |