With woeful measures wan Despair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 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: 40 He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 50 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! And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; 55 60 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, Love of peace, and lonely musing In hollow murmurs died away. 65 But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 70 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, 75 Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. 85 They would have thought who heard the strain To some unwearied minstrel dancing; As if he would the charming air repay, O Music! sphere-descended maid, You learn'd an all-commanding power, 28. Thy wonders, in that god-like age, 29. THE SONG OF DAVID He sang of God, the mighty source 110 115 W. Collins From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes, 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, At once, above, beneath, around, INFANT JOY 'I have no name; I am but two days old.' 'I happy am; Joy is my name.' -Sweet joy befall thee! CLXXIX. C. Smart 5 10 15 CLXXX. 5 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech Beside some water's rushy brink 15 How vain the ardour of the crowd, In Fortune's varying colours drest : Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Methinks I hear in accents low Thy joys no glittering female meets, 25 25 30 35 40 45 50 T. Gray |