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And everywhere huge covered tables stood,
You need but wish, and instantly obeyed,
The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
And taught charmed echo to resound their smart,
Those pleased the most, where by a cunning hand,
And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed ;
Sometimes the pencil in cool airy halls,
Whate'er Lorraine18 light touched with softening hue,
Each sound, too, here, to languishment inclined,
:9 Rosa; Salvator Rosa, an Italian 17 Arcadian ; Arcadia was a pastoral painter, remarkable for his delinea. district in southern Greece.
tions of wild and savage scenery. 18 Lorraine, Claude Lorraine, a cele 20 Poussin; Nicholas Poussin, a brated landscape painter.
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
A certain music, never known before,
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight; Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hightai.
Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine ?
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart;
Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran
Yet the least entrance found they none at all, Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall.
And hither Morpheus-4 sent his kindest dreams,
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display, As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 21 night, called, named.
| 25 Elysian, heavenly; the heathens 22 diapason, a soud from all the called the place whither the souls of strings.
the blessed went, Elysium. 23 dole, melancholy.
26 Titian, a celebrated Italian 24 Morpheus, the god of sleep. | painter.
WILLIAM COLLINS, one of the finest lyric poets in our language, was born at Chichester, A.D. 1720; he was educated at Winchester, whence he removed to Oxford. He came to London as a literary adventurer, at a time when the public taste for poetry, especially of the abstract kind, was nearly extinct. Disappointment produced a painful effect on his mind, which was increased by his mad indulgence in the poison of intoxication. He terminated his brief and melancholy career in 1756.
The odes of Collins are generally regarded as the best productions of the kind that have appeared in England; they unite vigour of conception, bold and varied imagery, with great warmth of feeling ; sometimes, however, his abstractions are carried too far, and become so obscure as to be understood with difficulty, and so remote as to lose the power of exciting interest.
ODE TO FEAR.
Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
The grief-full Muse addressed her infant song,
Yet he, the bard' who first invoked thy name,
Disdained in Marathon” its power to feel :
But reached from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel.
Who left awhile o'er Hyblaʼst dews to rove,
Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove?
Sighed the sad call her son and husband heard,
And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more appeared.
Thy withering power inspired each mournful line, Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.
Or in some hollowed seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat,
Be miné, to read the visions old
I the bard; the tragic Greek poet mous for its honey; a village near Æschylus.
Athens bears the same name. 2 Marathon, the scene of a cele 5 queen; Jocasta, whose history brated battle between the Athenians forms the subject of one of Sophocles' and Persians. Æschylus had a personal tragedies. share in the engagement.
6 wretch; Edipus ; Sophocles wrote 8 he ; Sophocles, a tragic poet of three tragedies on the misfortunes of Athens, who excelled in the pathetic this monarch and his family.
7 eve; he alludes to the old supersti* Hybla; a mountain in Sicily, fa- tions connected with All Hallows' Eve.
O thou, whose spirit most possest
THE PASSION S.
AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest 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,
Even 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 woeful 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?