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

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still thro' all the 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 woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat; And tho' 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 froin

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 callid on

Hate. With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester*d seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul : ;

And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measures stole Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

Round an 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,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leap'd up, and siez'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 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 fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,

And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddess, why, to us deny'd,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recal 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-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found
Cæcilia'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!

ODE TO FEAR. THOU, to whom the world unknown,

With all its shadowy shapes, is shewn; Who seest, appalld, the unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veil between :

Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!

I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start; like thee disorder'd fly.
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm;
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep:
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind :
And those, the fiends, who, near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks, preside;
Whilst Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos’d and bare :
On whom that ravening brood of Fate
Who lap the blood of sorrow wait :

Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,

The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. Yet he, the bard who first invok'd thy name,

Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs'd the poet's flame,

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. But who is he whom later garlands grace;

Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove! Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous queen

Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, When once alone it broke the silent scene,

And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd. O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart:

Thy withering power inspir'd each mournful line: Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,

Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!

Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?

Or, in some hollow'd seat,

'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries, in tempests brought? Dark power, with shudd'ring meek submitted

thought. Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awakening bards have told:

And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice-hallow'd eve, abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave;
And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast !
By all that from thy prophet broke,
Io thy divine emotions spoke ;
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee!


I aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ;

O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-haird sun,
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd 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,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'a 'strain,

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