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Had been achieved, whereof all hell had rung,
Had not the snaky sorceress that sat

Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key,
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between.

58. THE PASSIONS.- -Collins.

When Music, heaverly maid! was young,-
While yet, in early Greece, she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Possessed beyond the muse's painting:
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired:
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard, apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness ruled the hour-)
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed-his eyes, on fire,
In lightnings owned 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, 'twas wild.

But thou, Oh Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!
Still it whispered 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 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,
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 wo;
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 unaltered mien;

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

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,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;

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

died away.

But, oh! 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 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;
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 kissed 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 odors from his dewy wings.

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'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;
So should desert in arms be crowned.

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sat like a blooming eastern bride,

In flower of youth, and beauty's pride.—
Happy, happy, happy pair!

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 trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.-

The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seat above-
Such is the power of mighty love!-
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

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,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres!

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young!

The jolly god in triumph comes!

Sound the trumpets! beat the drums!
Flushed with a purple grace

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,
Soft pity to infuse :

He sang Darius, great and good,
By too severe a fate,

Fallen fallen! fallen! fallen!
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood!
Deserted in his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes!

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
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred strain to move;
For pity melts the soul to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honor but an empty bubble;

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,
So love was crowned; but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again :

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished victor-sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain;
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

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