THE PASSIONS An Ode for Music WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire, 16 20 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. 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! 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, The doubling drum with furious heat; And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 24 28 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. 52 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, 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; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; 56 Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But O, how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that date and thicket rung,— The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known! The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, 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: First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; best; 79 They would have thought, who heard the strain, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, As if he would the charming air repay, O Music! sphere-descended maid, 94 Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, Where is thy native simple heart, 102 118 William Collins. ODE TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales, O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, |