By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades;

By him,* whose knight's distinguish❜d name
Refin❜d a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet,
Castalia's Moorish hills repeat;

Or him,† whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
Inwatchet weeds on Gallia's shore;

Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,

By virtues in her sire betray'd.

O Nature boon, from whom proceed Each forceful thought, each prompted deed; If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy seal!

Let some retreating Cynic find

Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind;
The Sports and I this hour agree,
To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

THE PASSIONS.

FOR MUSIC.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;

* Cervantes.

Le Sage, who died at Paris in the year 1745.

Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness rul'd 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,
Even 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 woful measures wan Despair-
Low, su!len sounds his grief beguil❜d;
A solemn, 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 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 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 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 withering 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,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, [his head. While each strain'd ball of sight seem 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'd on

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

[Hate.

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;

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;

[stole,

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure

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 aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green :

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear;

[Queen,

And Sport leap'd 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 address'd :
But soon he saw the brisk awakening 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 denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loy'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recal what then it heard.

Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that godlike 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;
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its Poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid;
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

* The harp of Eolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.