And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung, but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose:

He threw his blood-stained 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, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed, Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love, now, raving, called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired,

And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive
soul;

And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O, how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known ! The oak-crowned sisters and their chasteeyed queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leaped up and seized 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,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved 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 kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un

bound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,

Why, goddess, why to us denied,
Layest thou thy aucient lyre aside ?
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
Can well recall 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,
Even all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
O bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece!
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

ODE TO EVENING.

Faught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired

sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some softened strain,