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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 nought were fix'd ;

Sad 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 up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate 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 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 heal. thiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning

dew,

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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; 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 ad-
dress'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 Tempé's vale, her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,

*The Dryads and Diana.

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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 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 god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more pre-
vail,

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 soundO bid our vain endeavour cease; Revive the just designs of Greece: Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate!

FROM AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGH

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Or if he meditate his wish'd escape,

LANDS; CONSIDERED AS THE To some dim hill, that seems uprising SUBJECT OF POETRY.

ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN HOME. THESE, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy

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near,

To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape,

A fiery meteor, called by various names, such &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny as Will with the Whisp, Jack with the Lantern,

places.

F 2

In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise,

Pour'd sudde forth from every swelling

source!

What now remains but tears and hope

less sighs?

His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthful force,

And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse!

To that hoar pile* which still its ruins shows;

In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found,

Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,

And culls them, wondering, from the hallow'd ground

Or thither,+where beneath the showery west,

The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid;

For him in vain his anxious wife shall Once foes, perhaps, together now they

wait,

Or wander forth to meet him on his way!

For him in vain at to-fall of the day,

His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate!

Ah, ne'er shall he return! alone, if night

Her travell'd limbs in broken slumbers steep!

With drooping willows dress'd, his mournful sprite

Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:

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Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery But, oh! o'er all, forget not Kilda's

hand

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When he whom ev'n our joys provoke, The fiend of nature join'd his yoke, And rush d in wrath to make our isle his prey;

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away.

I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own; O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown, Where Justice bars her iron tower, To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne !

ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON, IN yonder grave a Druid lies

Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,

To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed 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.

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

The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
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!

And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun night has veil'd the solenın view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek nature's child, again adieu !

The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!

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