Who drew the fad Sicilian maid,

By virtues in her fire betray'd:

O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy feal!
Let fome retreating Cynic find

Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,

The Sports and I this hour agree

You rove thy fcene-full world with thee!

The PASSIONS. An ODE for Mufic.

WHEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece fhe fung,

The Paffions oft, to hear her shell,
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, infpir'd,

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

And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,

Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreffive power.

Firft 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 found himself had made.

Next Anger rufh'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-
Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair,
What was thy delighted meafure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at diftance hail !
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo ftill through all the fong; And where her fweeteft theme the chofe,

A foft refponfive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted fmil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung-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

And blew a blast 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 though fometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his fide

Her foul-fubduing voice applied,

Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mien, [his head.
While each train'd ball of fight feem'd bursting from
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of differing 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 infpir'd,

Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,

And from her wild fequefter'd feat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her penfive foul:
And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the found;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er fome haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffufing,

Love of peace, and lonely mufing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her fhoulder flung,

Her bufkins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an infpiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crown'd fifters, and their chafte-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercife rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up, and feiz'd his beechen spear.

Laft came Joy's ecftatic trial.

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But foon he faw the brifk-awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal founding shades,

To fome unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kifs'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her treffes feen, 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 Mufic, fphere-defcended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddefs, why to us denied?
Lay'st thou thy ancient 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 recal what then it heard.

VOL. II.

T

Where

Where is thy native fimple heart,

Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arife, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, fublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording fifter's 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 laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found
Cæcilia's mingled world of found-
O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her fons relate!

Addreffed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakespeare's Works.

WHILE, born to bring the Mufe's happier days,

A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays;

While, nurs'd by you, fhe fees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd o'er his honqur'd tomb:

Excufe her doubts, if yet fhe fears to tell
What fecret transports in her bofom fwell:
With confcious awe fhe hears the critic's fame,

And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare,s name.

Hard