By turns they felt the glowing mind From the supporting myrtles round First Fear his hand, its skill. to try, Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, With woeful measures wan Despair- But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 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 chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung,-but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, [head. While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. 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: Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, 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, The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Queen, 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 extatic 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, 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Than all which charms this laggard age, AN EPISTLE, ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKSPEARE'S WORKS. WHILE born to bring the Muse's happier days, A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays, While nurs'd by you she sees her myrtles bloom, 1 And blushing hides her wreath at Shakspeare's name. |