Let fome retreating Cynic find
Thofe oft-turn'd fcrolls I leave behind,
The sports and I this hour agree,

To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

THE PASSION S.

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

Hen Mufic, heavenly maid, was young,

WE

While yet in early Greece fhe fung,

The Paffions oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
//Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They fnatch'd her inftruments of found,

And as they oft had heard apart

Sweet leffons of her forceful art,

Each, for madnefs rul'd the hour,

Would prove his own expreffive power.

Firft Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

Even at the found himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the ftrings.

A

With woeful measures wan Despair

Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,

'Twas fad by fits, by ftarts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely fcenes at diftance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo ftill thro' all the fong;

And

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A foft refponfive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted fmil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had fhe fung,but, with a frown
Revenge impatient rofe

He threw his blood-ftain'd fword in thunder

down,

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast fo loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic founds fo full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And tho' fometimes, each dreary pause between Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her foul-fubduing voice applied,

Yet ftill he kept his wild unaltered mien,

2

While each ftrain'd ball of fight feem'd bursting

from his head.

F 2

Thy

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Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought were fix'd,

Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of differing themes the veering fong 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 fat retir'd,

And from her wild fequefter'd feat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her penfive foul:
And dafhing foft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the found;

Thro'glades and glooms the mingled measure
ftole,

Or o'er fome haunted ftreams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffufing,

Love of peace, and lonely mufing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But