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Collins. From the supporting myrtles round

They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft' had heard apart
Sweet lesson's of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness ruld the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n at the found himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire
In lightnings own'd his fecret ftings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurry'd hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguild;
A folemn, strange and mingled air!
'Twas sad by fits, by starts it was wild.

But Thou, o Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd 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 calld on Echo still thro' all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chofe,
A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close;
And Hope enchanted smild, and wav'd her golden

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
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetick sounds so full of woe;
And ever and anon he heat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his fide


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Her soul-fubduing voice apply'd,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of fight 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 long was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving calld on Hate.


With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,
And from her wild fequefter'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive, soul,
And das hing soft from rocks around
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure ftole,
Or o'er fome haunted streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs dy'd away,
But o! how alterd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders 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 fifters, and their chaste-ey'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 leiz’d his heechen fpear.
Last came Joy's ecstatick trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,
But foon he saw the brisk-awakening viol,
Whole 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 Chades
To fome unweary'd minstrel dancing,

CC 2


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While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastick round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her Zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolick play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Mufick! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddess! why to us deny'd ?
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r
You learnd an all-commanding pow'r,
Thy mimick 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,
Warın, energick, chaste, lublime!
Thy wonders in that god-like age
Fill thy recording fifter's page
Tis faid, and I believe the tale,
Thy humbleft reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
Evin all at once together found
Caecilia's mingled world of found -
O bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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Thomas Warton.



Man kennt die großen und mannichfaltig literarischen Verdienste dieses trefflichen Mannes, der noch als Professor der Geschichte Oxford lebt, und seit drei Jahren zum Poet Laureatė, vder königlichem Dichter, ernannt ist. Aber auch reine Poesieen, von denen zu London 1777. gr. 8. eine zweite Auflage erschien, welche vermischte Gedichte, Oden ind Sonnette enthält, verdienen alle Aufmerksamkeit, wes gen des in ihnen herrschenden klaffischen und &chten poetis schen Geschmacks. Sebr mablerisch schon ist folgende oder und die Wendung darin überaus glücklich, wodurch der Leser von dem tief erregten Bedauern des unglücklichen Selbits mörders zum gerechten, durch jenes Mitleid nicht verstimms ten Iirtheile über feine Chat und sein Schicksal hingeleitet wird.

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Lourd the grim morn, in murky dies
Damp mists involv'd the scowling skies,

And dimm'd the struggling day;
As by the brook that lingering laves

Yon rush-grown moor with fable waves,
Full of the dark resolve he took his sullen way.

I mark'd his desultory pace,
His gestures strange, and varying face,

With many a mutter'd found;
And ah! too late aghaft I view'd

The reeking blade, the hand embru'd :
He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground.


C 3


Thoniaswar: Full many a melancholy night

He watch'd the flow return of light;

And fought the powers of sleep,
To spread a momentary calm

O’er his sad couch, and in the balm
Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.

Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless noons alone,

Ainid the autumnal wood: ,
Oft was he wont, in hafty fit,

Abrupt the social board to quit,
And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood,

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Beckoning the wretch to torments new,
DESPAIR, for ever in his view,

A spectre pale, appear’d;
While, as the shades of eve arose
And brought the day's unwelcome close,
More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear’d,


„Is this,'mistaken Scorn will

Is this the youth, whofe genius high

Could build the genuine rime?
Whose bosom mild the favouring Muse
„Had stor'd with all her ample views,
,,Parent of fairest deeds, and purposes sublime?«

Ah! from the Muse that bosom mild
By treacherous magic was beguild,

To strike the deathful blow:
She filled his soft ingenuous mind

With many a feeling too refin'd,
And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of woe.

Though doom'd hard penury to prove,
And the sharp sting's of hopeless love;

To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,

While misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own,


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