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AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
Whe^ Music, heavenly maid, was young,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
But thou, 0 Hope, with eyes so fair,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail f
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 hair. 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 his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired;
And, from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;
Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, 0 ! how altered was its sprightlier tone,
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,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.
THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND
In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
And oft, as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,