And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! 45 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, r

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Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mein,® While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.>

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;" Sad proof of thy distressful state;t

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Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate, w

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sate retired;

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

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Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure

stole,

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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 alter'd was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

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Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

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And Sport leapt 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,

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Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best; They would have thought who heard the strain 85 They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 89 Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!

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Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
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 reed could more prevail,
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 endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.

THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO

LIE ON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND.

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IN yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave!)
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise) a
To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid, {
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,

Shall sadly seem in pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

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a The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft, as ease and health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail;
Or tears, which love and pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail?

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?

With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide

No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

VARIATION.

Ver. 21. But thou who own'st that earthly bed.

Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried.

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