The Passions. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. THE PASSIONS. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en 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, 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 — She called on Echo still, through all the song; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; 671 He threw his blood-stained 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 between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head, The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known! And Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; To Constantia — Singing. And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen THUS to be lost, and thus to sink and die, 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; 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, While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid, WILLIAM COLLINS. Perchance were death indeed! Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are |