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Firft Fear his hand, its kill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd he knew not why,

Even at the found 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 woeful meafures wan Despair

Low fullen founds his grief beguild, 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 bad the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She callid on Echo ftill thro' 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


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And longer had the fung, -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 fo loud and dread,
Werę ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat; And tho' fometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her foul-fubduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of fight seem'd bursting

from his head.

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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,
Pale Melancholy sat retir’d,
And from her wild fequefter'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her pensive foul :

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling ruonels join'd the found; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure ftole,

Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffufing,

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 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 cak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, [queen,

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 awakening viol,
Whofe 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 feftal sounding shades,

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To fome anwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses feen, 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'ft thou thy antient lyre aside ?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear’d,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native fimple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art ?
Arife, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chafte, sublime !


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