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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 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 ftrings.

With woeful measures wan Despair-
Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits, by ftarts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo 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 ftrain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo ftill thro' all the fong;

And

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A foft refponfive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden

hair.

And longer had fhe fung,-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose,

He threw his blood-ftain'd fword in thunder down, And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blaft fo loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic founds fo 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 ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each ftrain'd ball of fight feem'd burfting

from his head.

F 2

Thy

Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy diftrefsful ftate,

Of differing themes the veering fong was mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on

Hate.

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

Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,

And from her wild fequefter'd feat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her penfive foul:

And dafhing foft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the found;

Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure ftole,

Or o'er fome haunted ftreams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffufing,

Love of peace, and lonely mufing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

1

But

But O, how alter'd was its fprightlier tone!
When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthieft hue,
Her bow across her fhoulder flung,

Her bufkins 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 Sifters, and their chafte-eyed
Satyrs and fylvan boys were feen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercife rejoic'd to hear,

[queen,

And Sport leapt up, and feiz'd his beechen fpear.

Laft came Joy's ecftatic trial,

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addreft,
But foon he faw the brifk awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best:
They would have thought, who heard the ftrain,

They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the feftal founding fhades,

To fome inwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kifs'd the ftrings,
Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her treffes 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 Mufic, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddess, why to us denied?
Lay'ft thou thy antient lyre afide?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all commanding power,
Thy mimic foul, 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, fublime !

Thy

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