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The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake,
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
William Collins, one of the most ill-fated of poets, was born in Chichester in 1721, and died in 1759. His odes and eclogues are highly prized. That on The Passions is one of the finest in the language.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
With woful measures, wan Despair-
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
She called on Echo still through all her 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;
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
The doubling drum, with furious heat.
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
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;
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed:
And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
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, oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung—
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
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 addressed;
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
As if he would the charming air repay,
III. THE VOICE AND PEN.
(D. F. M'CARTHY.)
D. F. M'Carthy is a native of Ireland, and a frequent contributor to the Dublin University Magazine.
OH! the orator's Voice is a mighty power
As it echoes from shore to shore
And the fearless Pen has more sway o'er men
What burst the chain far o'er the main,
And brightens the captive's den?
'Tis the fearless Voice and the Pen of Power-
Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!
The tyrant knaves who deny our rights,
And the cowards who blanch with fear,
Exclaim with glee, "No arms have ye—
Your hills are ours; with our forts and towers
Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand,
And your sentinels walk around
Though your matches flare in the midnight air, And your brazen trumpets sound;
Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among These listening warrior men;
And they'll quickly say, "Why should we slay Our friends of the Voice and Pen?"
When the Lord created the earth and sea,
The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke—
Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue,
And the chains accursed asunder burst,
Oh! these are the swords with which we fight, The arms in which we trust;
Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand,
Which time cannot dim or rust!
When these we bore, we triumphed before,With these we'll triumph again;
And the world will say, "No power can stay The Voice and the fearless Pen !"
Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!