O Humor, thou whose name is known. There where the young-eyed healthful Wit (Whose jewels in his crispéd hair Are placed each other's beams to share ; By old Miletus, who so long Whose tales e'en now, with echo sweet, Or him whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore, 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-turned scrolls I leave behind : The Sports and I this hour agree, To rove thy scene-full world with thee! THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, From the supporting myrtles round First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Even at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire, With woful measures wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, - Revenge impatient rose : He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, down; The war-denouncing trumpet took, And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat; Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. 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 Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Love of Peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 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, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid, |