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Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
The berding Hermit here a prayer begun,
'Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done." Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And passed a life of piety and peace.
ODE ON THE PASSIONS.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
From the supporting myrtles round
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire,
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, O Hope, with eyes so fair-
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called 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, smiled, and waved her golden
And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his blood-stained 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 woe!
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
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught 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 Hatc.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of Peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But O! 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—
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leapt up, and seized 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 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,
As if he would the charming air repay,
O Music! sphere-descended maid,