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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,call'don Hate.
With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir’d,
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; 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,
Her bow across her shoulder Aung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;
Peeping from forth their alleys green:
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,
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,
Amid the festal-sonnding shades,
Love fram’d with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
As if he would the charming air repay,
O Music! sphere-descended maid !
Thy wonders in that god-like age,
Distant Prospect of Eton College.
Y e distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watry glade
Her Henry's holy shade;
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
His silver-winding way!
Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shades!
Ah fields belov'd in vain!
A stranger yet to pain!
As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
To breathe a second spring.
Say, father Thames (for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
The paths of pleasure trace,)
The captive linnet which inthral?
Or urge the flying ball?
While some on earnest business bent,
Their murm’ring labours ply
To sweeten liberty;
And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed;
Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom Health of rosy hue, Wild Wit, Invention ever new,
And lively Cheer, of Vigour bori; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No care beyond to-day:
And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey the murd'rous band!
Ah, tell them they are nien!