But thou, O Hope, with Eyes so fair,
What was thy delightful Measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd Pleasure,

And bad 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 thro' all the Song;
And, where Her sweetest Theme She chose,
A soft responsive Voice was heard at ev'ry Close,
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd 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 with'ring Look,

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 tho' 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 diff'ring Themes the veering Song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on
Hate.

With Eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale Melancholy sate retir'd,

And from her wild sequester'd Seat,
In Notes by Distance made more sweet,
Pour'd thro' 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 Chearfulness, a Nymph of healthiest Hue,
Her Bow a-cross her Shoulder flung,

Her Buskins gem'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 chast-eye'd Queen,

Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their Alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his Beechen Spear.

Last came Joy's Ecstatic Trial,

He with viny Crown advancing,

First to the lively Pipe his Hand addrest,

But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning Viol,

Whose sweet entrancing Voice he lov'd 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 kiss'd the Strings,
LOVE fram'd 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,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's Aid,
Why, Goddess, why, to us deny'd?
Lay'st Thou thy antient Lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian Bow'r,
You learn'd an all-commanding Pow'r,
Thy mimic Soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple Heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise as in that elder Time,
Warm, Energic, Chaste, Sublime!
Thy Wonders in that God-like Age,
Fill thy recording Sister's Page--
"Tis said, and I believe the Tale,
Thy humblest Reed could more prevail,
Had more of Strength, diviner Rage,
Than all which charms this laggard Age,
Ev'n all at once together found,
Cæcilia's mingled World of Sound
O bid our vain Endeavors cease,
Revive the just Designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple State!
Confirm the Tales Her Sons relate!

ODE

ON

THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON

ΤΟ

GEORGE LYTTELTON, ESQ.

THIS ODE

IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR

ADVERTISEMENT.-The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond