COLLINS.

THE PASSIONS,

AN ODE.

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,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting ;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb’d, delighted, rais’d, refiu'd ;
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,

Ev'n 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 woeful measures wan Despair

Low sullen sounds 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 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 ev'ry 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 with’ring 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, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his

head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ;

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd ; And now it courted Love, now raving callid on Hate.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
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 ;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole,

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 healtiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulders 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 oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

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,

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

They saw, in Temple'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 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 simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, 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 ;
Ev'n 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 !

TO MERCY.

STROPHE

O Thou, who sit'st a smiling bride
By valour's arm’d and awful side,
Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd;

Who oft with songs, divine to hear

Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear,
And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword !

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy bosom bare art found,
Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground:

See, Mercy, see with pure and loaded hands,

Before thy shrine my country's genius stands, And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a wound !

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom ev'n our joys provoke,

The fiend of nature join'd his yoke,
And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey :

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,

O'ertook him on his blasted road,
And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.

I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds,
Thy tender melting eyes they own;
O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown,

Where justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarchi's

TO FEAR.

Thou, to whom the world unknown,

With all its shadowy shades, is shewn;
Who seest, appall’d, the unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between :

Ah Fear ! ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.

I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start; like thee disorder'd fly.
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold ?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm ;
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep :
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind :
And those, the fiends, who, near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks, preside;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos’d and bare ;
On whom that ravening brood of Fate
Who lap the blood of sorrow wait :
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

EPODE.

In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice,

The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue ; l'he maids and matrons on her awful voice,

Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.

Yet he, the bard who first invok'd thy name,

Disdain'd in Marathon its power to feel : For not alone he nurs’d the poet's flame,

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.

But who is he wnom jater garlands grace ;

Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to rove, With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace,

Where thou and furies shar'd the baleful grove !