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By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
Whose tales e'en now, with echos sweet,
Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
O Nature boon, from whom proceed
On all my heart imprint thy seal!
Let some retreating Cynic find
Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind;
To rove thy scene-full world with thee!
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
+ Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
What was thy delighted measure?
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 down; And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
And ever and anon 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 mien,
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,
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
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 shoulders flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew 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, Satyrs and Sylvan boys were seen,
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 vain crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved 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 framed 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 odours from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER,
WHILE, born to bring the Muse's happier days,
While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom
With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakspeare's name.
Hard was the lot those injured strains endured,
Not with more grief th' afflicted swains appear,
Each rising art by just gradation moves,
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
To Rome removed, with wit secure to please,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly soil.
As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose ; Goths, priests, or Vandals,-all were Learning's foes, Till+ Julius first recall'd each exiled maid, And Cosmo own'd them in th' Etrurian shade: Then deeply skill'd in Love's engaging theme, The soft Provençal pass'd to Arno's stream: With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung, Sweet flow'd the lays-but love was all he sung. The gay description could not fail to move; For, led by Nature, all are friends to love.
But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The Edipus of Sophocles.
Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X.