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When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
And, as they oft had heard apart
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
Revenge impatient rose :
And, with a with’ring look,
And, ever, and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious heat;
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
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,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ;
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
Her bow across her shoulders flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
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,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
As if he would the charming air repay,
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
O Thou, who sit'st a smiling bride
Who oft with songs, divine to hear
Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear,
Thou who, amidst the deathful field,
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
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 !
When he whom ev'n our joys provoke,
The fiend of nature join'd his yoke,
Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,
O'ertook him on his blasted road,
I see recoil his sable steeds,
That bore him swift to savage deeds,
Where justice bars her iron tower,
To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarchi's
Thou, to whom the world unknown,
With all its shadowy shades, is shewn;
Ah Fear ! ah frantic Fear!
I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye!
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 !