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By old Miletus * who fo long
O Nature boon, from whom proceed
* Alluding to the Milegan tales, some of the earliest soa
| Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.
Let fome retreating Cynic find
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
7 Hen Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
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 Atings, In one rude clash he ftruck 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 bad 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 ftill thro' all the song ;
And where her sweetest theme the chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted fmild, and wav'd her golden
And longer had the sung, -but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,
And, with a withering look,
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
Dejected Pity at his fide,
Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each train'd ball of fight feem'd bursting from his head,