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, With woeful measures wan Despair- But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair, 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, 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, Love of peace, and lonely mufing, In hollow murmurs died away. 1 But But O, how alter'd was its fprightlier tone! Her bufkins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The oak-crown'd Sifters, and their chafte-eyed 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, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best: They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids, To fome inwearied minstrel dancing, As if he would the charming air repay, O Mufic, sphere-descended maid, Where is thy native fimple heart, Warm, energic, chafte, fublime ! Thy |