From the supporting myrtles round,

They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid ;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, oh Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised 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 called on Echo still through all her song:

L

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair:

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his bloodstained 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 wo;

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 nought 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 up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat 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 measures stole,

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

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

But oh! 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 Fawn and Dryad known;
The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed
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 addressed;
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 unbound);
And he, amidst his frolic play,

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

-COLLINS.

THE MULBERRY-TREE.

THE Mulberry-tree, the Mulberry-tree!
No child of the wood so wise as she;
For the spring may come, and the spring may go,
And her hastier mates in beauty glow,

Yet still she waits her fitting time,

Till summer hath reached its sunny prime.
Prudent, patient Mulberry-tree!

What child of the wood so wise as she?

But when chill spring hath passed away,
She quickly buddeth without delay,
Soon decketh herself in her summer charms,

And flingeth her dress o'er her naked arms;

And her ample leaf unfolds at last,
And her purple fruit doth ripen fast.
Active, ardent Mulberry-tree!

No child of the wood so wise as she.

Fain would I make such wisdom mine,
Prudence and vigour thus combine;
Not blindly rash when dangers lour,
Nor slow in duty's sunny hour ;
Still wait with patience, plan with care,
Yet prompt to act, and bold to dare.
Thus I'd be like the Mulberry-tree;
Happy, thrice happy, if wise as she.

-S. W. PARTRIDGE.

THE GIFT.

On blessed, blessed flowers! the hand
That sent ye hither, pure and fair,
Though it had swept through all the land
Could nothing home so lovely bear.

Most tender and most beautiful,

All fresh with dew, and rich with balm, How from art's garlands dim and dull

Ye bear the glory and the palm!