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THE PASSIONS.

(Represented as persons playing on Musical Instruments.)

First FEAR his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next ANGER rush'd; his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan DESPAIR

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air;

'T was sad by fits, hy starts 't was wild.

But thou, O HOPE, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called 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 :
He threw his blood-stain'd 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 woe !

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 unalter'd mien,
While each strain’d ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to naught were fix'd;

Šad proof of thy distressful state !
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving, call’d on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale MELANCHOLY sat retired;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
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,
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 alter'd was its sprightlier tone,
When CHEERFULNESS, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew, Blew such inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. Then the oak-crown'd nymphs with their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
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 kiss'd the strings,

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.-COLLINS.

TELL’S SPEECH.

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again !-O sacred forms, how proud you look !
How high you lift your heads into the sky!

How huge you are ! how mighty and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine-whose smile
Makes glad-whose frown is terrible—whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again !- I call to you
With all my voice !- I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you !

Once scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow
O'er the abyss :-his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow ; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight
Of measuring the ample range beneath,
And round about absorb’d, he heeded not
The death that threaten'd him I could not shoot
'Twas liberty !-I turned my bow aside,
And let him soar away!

Heavens, with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God
And bless him that it was so.

It was free-
From end to end, from cliff to lake—'twas free~
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun.

I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think I had no master save his own. And if o'ertaken in the narrow pass By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, While gust followed gúst more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there—the thought that mine was free Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is the land of liberty! KNOWLES. DEATH OF MARMION.

Fast as shaft can fly,
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by.
Soon after, up the hill there rode

Two horsemen, drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand,
His arms were smeared with blood and sand;
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone;
Can that be haughty Marmion?
They doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :-
Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where ?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!
Redeem my pennon, - charge again!
Cry—Marmion to the rescue!'-Vain !
Last of my race, on battle plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again !-
Yet my last thought is England's;-fly-
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie.

Tunstall lies dead upon the field;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down,-my life is reft;-

The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England 's lost.
Must I bid twice ?-hence, varlets ! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die.”

The war that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,

And-Stanley! was the cry:
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted “Victory!”–
“ Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!”
Were the last words of Marmion.

SCOTT. AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

All hail ! thou noble land,
Our fathers' native soil !
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shores;
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phæbus travels bright
The world o'er !

The genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conch the kindred league shall proclaim
Then let the world combine-
O’er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way, shall shine
Bright in fame!
Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravell’d seas to roam,-
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins !
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains ?
While the language free and bold
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of Heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet.
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast :

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,
Between let ocean roll,
Our joint communion breaking with the sun :
Yet, still from either beach,
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
“ We are one!”

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

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