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 beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O HOPE, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure?

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

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30

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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:

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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 sound 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,

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Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien [his head. While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to naught were fix'd; Sad proof of thy distressful state!

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Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale MELANCHOLY sat retired;

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

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Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

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Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a 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, 70
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her busking 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-eyed Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

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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 loved the best; They would have thought, who heard the strain, 85 They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; 90
Loose were her tresses 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! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, Goddess! why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,

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You learn'd an all-commanding power,

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Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!

Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page-
"T is said, and I believe the tale,

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Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,

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Than all which charms this laggard age;

Ev'n all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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COLLINS.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST.

"T WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son:

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were placed around:

Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound: (So should desert in arms be crown'd.)

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!

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None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

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Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:

The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,

Who left his blissful seats above,

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(Such is the power of mighty love.) A dragon's fiery form belied the god: Sublime on radiant spires he rode,

When he to fair Olympia press'd;

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[world.

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the

A present deity, they shout around:

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears

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The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

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The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung;

Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:

The jolly god in triumph comes;

Sound the trumpets; beat the drums;
Flush'd with a purple grace

He shows his honest face:

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Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.

Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;

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And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew

the slain.