Page images


Thou by the Passions nursed, I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet !
O Humour, thou whose name is known
To Britain's favour'd isle alone :
Me too amidst thy band admit;
There where the young-eyed healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are placed each other's beams to share ;
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loosed, attends thy side.



By old Miletus, who so long
Has ceased his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In changed Italia's modern shades;
By him' whose knight's distinguish'd name
Refined a nation's lust of fame;
Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat;
Or him? whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore;
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her sire betray'd.




* Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest ro

y Cervantes. z Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the

year 1745.

O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,
On all my heart imprint thy seal !
Let some retreating cynic find
Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind :
The Sports and I this hour agree,
To rove thy scene-full world with thee !




When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting :
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined ;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.


First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

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

E'en at the sound himself had made.

[ocr errors]

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 ;

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas 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, She call’d on Echo still, through all the song; 35

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:
He threw his blood-stain’d sword, in thunder,

And with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,



Ver. 30. What was thy delightful measure ?





And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!


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, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mein, While each strain’d ball of sight seem'd bursting

from 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 upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired;
And, from her wild sequester'd 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, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of Peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.


« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »