O thou who lovest that ampler range, Where life's wide prospects round thee change, To learn, where Science sure is found, To dream in her enchanted school: 25 Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast, Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, 30 30 335 40 To some Contempt applies her glass: With these the white-robed maids combine; 45 And those the laughing satyrs join! But who is he whom now she views, In robe of wild contending hues? Thou by the Passions nursed, I greet O Humour, thou whose name is known Me too amidst thy band admit; There where the young-eyed healthful Wit, Are placed each other's beams to share; By old Miletus, who so long By him' whose knight's distinguish'd name Whose tales e'en now, with echoes sweet, 65 Or him2 whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore, Who drew the sad Sicilian maid, By virtues in her sire betray'd. 70 * Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest roy Cervantes. mances. Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745. O Nature boon, from whom proceed Each forceful thought, each prompted deed; On all my heart imprint thy seal! Let some retreating cynic find Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind: To rove thy scene-full world with thee! 75 THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound; • First Fear his hand, its skill to try, E'en at the sound himself had made. 5 10 15 20 Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire, With woful 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, 9 25 30 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong;) And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still, through all the song And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung;-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: k He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, And with a withering look, M 35 40 VARIATION. Ver. 30. What was thy delightful measure ? |