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By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
O Nature boon, from whom proceed
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
+ 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,
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. 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 woeful measures wan Despair
Low solemn sounds his grief beguiled, A sullen, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. Bat thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden
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 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
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state !
And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate.
In notes by distance made more sweet,
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 streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.
But 0 ! 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,
They would have thought who heard the strain,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing ;
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
As if he would the charming air repay,
O Music ! sphere-descended maid,
ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER,
On his Edition of Shakspeare's Works. Walle, born to bring the Muse's happier days, A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays, While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell What secret transports in her bosom swell: 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,
Each rising art by just gradation moves,
To Rome removed, with wit secure to please, The comic sisters kept their native ease : With jealous fear declining Greece beheld Her own Menander's art almost excell’a! But every Muse essay'd to raise in vain Some labour'd rival of her tragic strain; Ilyssus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil, 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, Tillt 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 Edipus of Sophocles.