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WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E’en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned 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 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,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong ;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all the song ;
And, where her sweetest notes she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ;
And longer had she sung:
- but with a frown,
And with a withering look
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat ;
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 his head
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed :
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;
Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.
But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known !
Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest :
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round :
As if he would the charming air repay,
HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast;
Who sleep on glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host :
Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave
To seek this shore ;
They sternly bore
Hail to the morn, when first they stood
On Bunker's height,
In desperate fight!
There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore ;
Till time is o'er.
Thou art the firm unshaken rock,
On which we rest ;
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And free the oppressed :
We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand-
And storm our land :
J. G. Percival
SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.
ROM Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began :
Of jarring atoms lay
Arise, ye more than dead !
And Music's power obey.
This universal frame began :
From harmony to harmony
What passion cannot Music raise and quell ?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell