« السابقةمتابعة »
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join, Majestic, through the mix'd design; The secret builder knew to chuse, Each sphere-found gem of richest hues: Whate'er Heaven's purer mould contains, When nearer suns emblaze its veins ; There on the walls the patriot's sight May ever hang with fresh delight, And, 'grav'd with some prophetic rage, Read Albion's fame through every age. 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
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
With woeful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd, A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
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
And longer had she sung — but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beat,
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,
And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
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,
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,