259 SELECTIONS FROM COLLINS. THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined; Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound, And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each-for madness ruled the hourWould prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire In lightnings own'd his secret stings; 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, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper'd 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 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 hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 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, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. 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: Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung; 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 leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, 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 Tempé's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, As if he would the charming air repay, O Music, sphere-descended maid, DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring And melting virgins own their love. To deck the ground where thou art laid. The tender thought on thee shall dwell; ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND. IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave: In yon deep bed of whispering reeds Then maids and youths shall linger here, To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. When Thames in summer wreaths is dress'd, To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft as Ease and Health retire The friend shall view yon whitening spire,* And see! the fairy valleys fade, Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view! The genial meads † assign'd to bless 66 Thomson was buried in Richmond church. + He resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death. |