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Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band, That near her inmost altar stand! Now soothe her, to her blissful train Blithe Concord's social form to gain : Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep : Before whose breathing bosom's balm, Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm; Her let our sires and matrons hoar Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore, Our youths, enamour'd of the fair, Play with the tangles of her hair, Till, in one loud applauding sound, The nations shout to her around, "O, how supremely art thou blest, Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the Wes
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
From the supporting myrtles round
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
E'en 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
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was 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 every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.
The doubling drum with furious heat; [tween, And though sometimes, each dreary pause beDejected 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,
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,
With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
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 Tempé's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
As if he would the charming air repay,
O Music, sphere-descended maid,