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, O 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 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 unaltered mien,

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

Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to nought 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 hörn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined 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 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 Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amid 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 odours from his dewy wings.

O MUSIC! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, Goddess! why, to us denied,
Layest thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared!
Can well recall what then it heard ;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, 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;
Even 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!

THE CONVICT SHIP.

MORN on the waters! and purple and bright
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale;
The winds come around her, in murinur and song,
And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along.
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in her shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters, away and away!

Bright as the visions of youth ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves !-and the moon is on high,
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters !-asleep on their breast
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain !
Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty-could deem with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who-as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts that are parted and broken for ever?
Or dreams that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave ?

"Tis thus with our life: while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song!
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled ;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs :
Fading and false is the aspect
it wears,

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts that the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles lie burning below;

Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.

BENEATH the chancel's hallowed stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words, upon thy rough stone graven,
Thy name-thy birth-thy youth declare-
Thy innocence-thy hopes of heaven,
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave!
The place is silent. Rarely sound
Is heard these ancient walls around,
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighbouring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife,
In death's lone dwelling speaks of life,