CCII. THE PASSIONS. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, From the supporting myrtles round Each, for Madness ruled the hour, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, With woeful measures wan Despair But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, 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 the song; And, where her sweetest notes she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And longer had she sung: Revenge impatient rose: but with a frown, He threw the blood-stained sword in thunder down; The war-denouncing trumpet took And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; 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 horn her pensive soul : Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. 1 But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 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 addrest: But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. To some unwearied minstrel dancing; Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: As if he would the charming air repay, W. Collins. CCIII. NEW ENGLAND. HAIL to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height, And, fearless stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! O! 't was a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light. There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore; Thou art the shelter of the free; The home, the port of liberty Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon Thy land, shall mother curse the son She bore. Thou art the firm unshaken rock, On which we rest; And rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, All, who the wreath of freedom twine, We love thy rude and rocky shore, Let foreign navies hasten o'er, They still shall find, our lives are given Our hand. CCIV. J. G. Percival. SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. ROM Harmony, from heavenly Harmony FROM This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell |