His soul, proud science never taught to stray Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, Where slaves once more their native land behold, He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire; Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause. ODE ON THE PASSIONS. WHEN Music, heavenly inaid, was young, And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness ruled the hour, First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire; In lightnings own'd his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyreAnd swept with hurried hands the strings. With woful measures, wan Despair- A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad, by fits-by starts 'twas wild. But thou, Oh Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 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 unalter'd mien; While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed; 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 upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; 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, Love of peace and lonely musing,) But O, how altered was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Plew 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, 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 address’ù; To some unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, As if he would the charming air repay, COLLINS. THE MARINER'S DREAM. IN slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind. But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dream'd of his home, of his dear native bowers, Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, A father bends o'er him with looks of delight, With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dea The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse—all his hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest— "O God thou hast bless'd me- I ask for no more." . Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere! |