When ghofts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or floods, the walks of men!
O thou whofe fpirit most possest
The facred feat of Shakefpear's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions fpoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,

Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cypress wreath my meed decree,

And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee?

{*}*{*}*{*}

**********

THE PASSIONS,

W

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

BY THE SAME.

HEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece fhe fung,

The Paffions oft, to hear her fhell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Difturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
"Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of found,
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,

Even at the found himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair

Low füllen sounds his grief beguild, A folemn, 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 still thro' all the song ;
And where her sweetest theme she chofe,

A soft refponfive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And

And longer had fhe fung,-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,

He threw his blood-ftain'd fword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing-trumpet took,

And blew a blaft fo loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic founds fo full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And tho' fometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her foul fubduing voice applied,

Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ballof fight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy diftrefsful ftate,

Of different themes the veering fong was mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,

And from her wild fequefter'd feat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her penfive foul:

And dafhing foft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the found;

Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure ftole,

Or

Or o'er fome haunted streams with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffufing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away. .
But O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthieft hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rup The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs and fylvan 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 Tempe's vale her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To fome 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!

O Mufic! fphere-defcended maid,
Friend of pleafure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddefs, why to us denied?
Lay'st thou thy antient lyre afide?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic foul, O nymph endear'd!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native fimple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arife, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chafte, fublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sisters page
'Tis faid, and I believe the tale,
Thy humbleft reed could more prevail,
Had more of ftrength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggardage,
Even all at once together found
Cæcilia's mingled world of found-
O bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just defigns of Greece,
Return in all thy fimple state!

Confirm the tales her fons relate!

1

EVERY