Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined 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 altered was its sprightlier tone,

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and
Dryad known;

The oak-crowned 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 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;

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 and his play,

As if he would the charming air

repay,

Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! Why, goddess! why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thine ancient lyre aside? As in that loved Athenian bower, You learned an all-commanding

power,

Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page:·
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest seed could more pre-
vail,

Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age;

E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound,
O bid our vain endeavors cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
COLLINS.

A SUPPLICATION.
AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy silent master's humble
tale

In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she,

And I so lowly be,

Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark! how the strings awake:
And, though the moving hand ap-
proach not near,
Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;
Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests
of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found

To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.

young:

The jolly god in triumph comes!
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
Flushed with a purple grace
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he
comes, he comes!

Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;

Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes,

and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he Heaven and Earth defied Changed his hand and checked his pride.

He chose a mournful Muse
Soft pity to infuse:

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless
victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of Chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
Honor but an empty bubble,
Never ending, still beginning;
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee!
The many rend the skies with
loud applause;

So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.

The prince unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,

Sighed and looked and sighed again: At length with love and wine at once opprest

The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!

Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark, hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head:

As awaked from the dead
And amazed he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band

Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in
battle were slain

And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain:
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew!

Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Persian abodes

And glittering temples of their hostile gods.

The princes applaud with a furious joy:

And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thus long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down!

DRYDEN.

Statues, bend your heads in sor

row,

Ye that glance 'mid ruins old,
That know not a past, nor expect a

morrow

On many a moonlight Grecian wold!

By sculptured cave and speaking river,

Thee, Daedalus, oft the Nymphs recall;

The leaves with a sound of winter quiver,

Murmurthy name, and withering fall.

Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest

Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed eye,

Though, Daedalus, thou no more commandest

New stars to that ever-widening sky.

Ever thy phantoms arise before us, Our loftier brothers, but one in blood;

By bed and table they lord it o'er us,

With looks of beauty and words of good.

Calmly they show us mankind victorious

O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base;

Their presence has made our nature glorious,

Unveiling our night's illumined face.

Wail for Dædalus, Earth and Ocean! Stars and Sun, lament for him! Ages quake in strange commotion! All ye realms of Life be dim!

Wail for Dædalus, awful Voices, From earth's deep centre Mankind appall!

Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices,

For he knows that then the mightiest fall.

JOHN STERLING.