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Had been achieved, whereof all hell had rung,
Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key,
58. THE PASSIONS.- -Collins.
When Music, heaverly maid! was young,-
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Next Anger rushed-his eyes, on fire,
With woful measures, wan Despair-
But thou, Oh Hope! with eyes so fair,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 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,
He threw his blood-stained 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 wo;
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 naught 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,
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 measures stole, Or, o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay, (Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing,)
In hollow murmurs
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, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,
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:
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
As if he would the charming air repay,
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son.
Aloft, in awful state,
The godlike hero sat
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound;
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sat like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth, and beauty's pride.—
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave,deserves the fair.
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The song began from Jove,
When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world! The listening crowd admire the lofty sound:
"A present deity!" they shout around;
"A present deity!" the vaulted roofs rebound.With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
And seems to shake the spheres!
The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung,
The jolly god in triumph comes!
Sound the trumpets! beat the drums!
He shows his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath!-he comes! he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain:
Bacchus's blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure ;
Sweet the pleasure;
Sweet is pleasure after pain!
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes!
And, while he heaven and earth defiedChanged his hand and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,
He sang Darius, great and good,
Fallen fallen! fallen! fallen!
With downcast looks the joyless victor sat, Revolving, in his altered soul,
The various turns of fate below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still and still destroying.
If the world be worth thy winning, Think, Oh! think it worth enjoying; Lovely Thais sits beside thee;
Take the good the gods provide thee.—
The many rend the skies with loud applause,
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
Now strike the golden lyre again;
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.