When Music, heavenly maid, was 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, 'tis 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.
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
First to the lively pipe his hand ad
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved
They would have thought, who heard
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,
Loved framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, admist his frolic 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 thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learned an all-commanding power, 100
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, energic,1 chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page.-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 110
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the
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