COLLINS THE PASSIONS. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, They snatched her instruments of sound; Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire, With woful measures wan Despair, But thou, O' Hope, with eyes so fair, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close: And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden har And longer had she sung: but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: He threw his blood-stained 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 sounds so full of wo! 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 unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed, Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, 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 an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew; id 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 forth from 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 addressed: But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: To some unwearied minstrel dancing, As if he would the charming air repay, O Music! sphere-descended maid, Where is thy native simple heart, EPITAPH. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; |