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Thou by the passions nurs'd; I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet !
O Humour, thou whose name is known,
To Britain's favour'd isle alone :
Me too amidst thy band admit,
There where the young.eyed healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair
Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos’d attends thy side!

By old Miletus * who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades:
By him, whose Knight's distinguish'd name
Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;
Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet,
Castilia's Moorish hills repeat:
Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore,

* Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances.

The Milesian and Tuscan romances were by no means distinguished for humour; but as they were the models of that species of writing in which humour was afterwards employed, they are, probably, for that reason only, mentioned here.-L.

+ Cervantes.

| Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1747.


Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her sire betrayed :

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 seal ! Let some retreating Cynic find Those oft-turn'd scrolls leave behind, The Sports and I this hour agree, To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

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WHEN Music, heavenly 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 ;

* The Story of Blanche (see Gil Blas, b. 2, ch.4,) has more to do with the high passions than with manpers.-B.

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 heart,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power,

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

Even 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 woeful measures wan Despair.

Low sullen sounds his grief beguilid, 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 delighted measure ?

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 smild, and way'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung --but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose,
He threw his blood-stain'd 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 tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

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,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'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 stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

Round an holy calın diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But 0, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunters' call to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Queen,
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 bcechen spear.

Last came Joy's extatic trial,
He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,

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