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Sir W. Jones 265
Page 43, last line, for ne'er read e'er.
118, line 6, for hightest read highest.
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
Ev'n at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings:
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguild;
'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 promis'd pleasure,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close; And Hope enchanted smild, and wav'd her golden