THE HAPPY MAN. (IN IMITATION OF THE ABOVE.) Happy the man, whose rural shade Whose farm, compos'd of fruitful fields; Sequester'd grots and lonely caves, By his own cultivation yields What nature craves: Blest, who in sweet devotion spends With heav'nly praisė: Content if Fortune smile or frown,- Thus, far from rancour, noise or strife, Would heaven grant my fond desire, I'd lead a solitary life, And thus expire. THE PASSIONS. AN ODE. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound, And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, With woeful measure wan Despair. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And when her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose, And threw his blood-stain'd 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 sound 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, unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, 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, Bubling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, I hollow, murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! Her buskins gem'd with morning due, Blue an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,, The hunter's call to Fawn and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters with their chaste-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen spear, Last came Joy's extatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, To some unwearied minstrel danceing, While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, |