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While, ever varying as they pass,
By old Miletus,* who so long
O Nature boon, from whom proceed
my heart imprint thy seal!
* Alluding to the Milesian Tales, some of the earliest romancen,
| Crirvantes. ol OD Blus de Santillant', who died in Paris in the year 1745.
I Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of
Let some retreating Cynic find
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young
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.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd pronised 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 surg,-but, with a frown,
Revenge in patient 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! Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call's on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Throngh 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 fung, 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;
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER,
On his Edition of Shakspeare's Works. WHILE, born to bring the Muse's happier days, A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays,