COLLINS. THE PASSIONS. FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Ev'n at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire, With woful measures wan Despair- But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still, through all the 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-stain'd sword in thunder down; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, The doubling drum with furious heat; And though, sometimes, each dreary pause be tween, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fix'd: Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; With eyes upraised, as one inspired, And, from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd 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 alter'd was its sprightlier tone, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, The oak-crown'd 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 leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; 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, Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, As if he would the charming air repay, O Music! sphere-descended maid, |