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Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,' Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In lingering Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful Echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic Mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.1 Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! 5 next thy sea-encircled

coast.

III

THE STROPHE

Far from the sun and summer-gale,

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In thy green lap was Nature's Darling' laid,

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What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To Him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her awful face: The dauntless Child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:

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1 the path of the sun 2 This and the following are places celebrated in Greek poetry. 3 the Muses 4 Italy Englandi.e. England's Shakespeare

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So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd

Health,

Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy fav'rite name!

THE PASSIONS

AN ODE TO MUSIC

When Music, heav'nly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,'
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
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 pow'r.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n 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 woful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
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 delightful measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

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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 thro' all the song; 35 And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

1 the lyre, cf. Progress of Poesy, Il. 13-15