In solemn troops, and sweet societies, Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, MILTON. Epitaph ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, SISTER TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. UNDERNEATH this marble hearse BEN JONSON. The Passions. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, From the supporting myrtles round Each, for madness ruled the hour, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre," Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, "T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And longer had she sung—but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, 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 unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. With eyes up-raised as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul. Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But O, how altered was its sprightlier tone! Her buskins gemmed with morning dew; Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 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 viney 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 kissed 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, |