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She call'd 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
And longer had she sung :-but with a frown
Revenge impatient rose :
He threw his blood-stain'd 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 unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting
from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd :
Sad proof of thy distressful state !
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd ;
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on
With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired ;
And from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul :
And dashing soft from rocks around
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure
stole, 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 alter'd was its sprightlier tone
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known !
The oak-crown’d 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 :
Ile, 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 kiss'd 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 odours from his clewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid !
Why, goddess ! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learn’d an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear’d,
Can well recall what then it heari.
Where is thy native simple hear!
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime !
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page ;-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age :
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound :-
O bid our vain endeavours cease :
Revive the just designs of Greece :
Return in all thy simple state !
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
He sang of God, the mighty source
Of all things, the stupendous force
On which all strength depends :
From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,
All period, power, and enterprise
Commences, reigns, and ends.
The world, the clustering spheres He made,
The glorious light, the soothing shade,
Dale, champaign, grove and hill :
The multitudinous abyss,
Where secrecy remains in bliss,
And wisdom hides her skill.
Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said
To Moses : while Earth heard in dread,
And, smitten to the heart,
At once, above, beneath, around,
All Nature, without voice or sound,
Replied, 'O Lord, THOU ART.'
I have no name ;
I am but two days old.'
-- What shall I call thee?
'I happy am ;
Joy is my name.'
- Sweet joy befall thee !
Sweet joy, but two days old ;
Sweet joy I call thec :
Thou dost smile :
I sing the while,
Sweet joy befall thee !
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night ;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
Oh the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers
And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of Spring :While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great !
Still is the toiling hand of Care ;
The panting herds repose :
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon :
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Man :
And they that creep, and they that
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay