890.-TO THE PASSIONS. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, E'en 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 woeful measures wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; '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; 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, down; And with a withering look, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! 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; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. With eyes up-raised, 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. But O how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder 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 chasteeyed 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: 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 Tempé'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 un bound; 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, Confirm the tales her sons relate! William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756. 891.-DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring No wailing ghost shall dare appear And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen; No goblins lead their nightly crew: The female Fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew! The redbreast oft, at evening hours, Shall kindly lend his little aid, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore; 892.-ODE ON THE DEATH OF In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; In yon deep bed of whispering reeds Then maids and youths shall linger here, To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore And oft, as Ease and Health retire That mourn beneath the gliding sail? Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! The genial meads assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress, With simple hands, thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: "Oh! vales and wild woods," shall he say, "In yonder grave your Druid lies!" William Collins.-Born 1720, Died 1756. 893.-THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, lies While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise : Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies, Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity. In every village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame, There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire, A matron old, whom we School-mistress And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse beat low; And as they look'd they found their horrour grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy Near to this dome is found a patch so green, On which the tribe their gambols do display; And at the door imprisoning-board is seen, Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! Do Learning's little tenement betray; And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd; And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind. Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet The childish faces of old Eol's train; How then would fare or Earth, or Sky, or Were the stern god to give his slaves the And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to maintain, The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! 'Twas her Own labour did the fleece prepare; And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear: Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, Who should not honour'd eld with these revere: For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came! Such favour did her past deportment claim : And, if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew; Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak ; But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew : The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue; The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around; And pungent radish, biting infants' tongue; And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound; And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found; And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, ere-while, in arid bundles bound, To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare perfume. And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd The daintiest garden of the proudest peer; appear, Oh wassel days! O customs meet and well! Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere: Simplicity then sought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell. Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete, If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer-seat: Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foe-men did a song entreat, All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing. For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed; And in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore The times, when Truth by Popish rage did bleed; And tortuous death was true Devotion's meed; And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed; And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn: Ah! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er return. In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed, The matron sate; and some with rank she graced, (The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!) edress'd affronts, for vile affronts there Rpass'd; And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. |