THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON (from "Tales

from Chaucer")

69

70

m

THE PASSIONS.

young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 't is 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,
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,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair,

Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, -
What was thy delightful measure?
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 theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every

close,