Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy diftrefsful ftate,

Of differing themes the veering fong was mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on

Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,

And from her wild fequefter'd feat,

In notes by distance made more fweet,

Pour'd thro' the mellow Horn her penfive foul:

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the found;

Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or o'er fome haunted ftreams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffufing,

Love of peace, and lonely mufing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But

But O, how alter'd was its fprightlier tone!
When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthieft hue,
Her bow across her fhoulder flung,

Her bufkins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an infpiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crown'd Sifters, and their chafte-eyed
Satyrs and fylvan boys were feen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercife rejoic'd to hear,

[queen,

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear,

Laft came Joy's ecftatic trial,

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,

But foon he faw the brifk awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best:
They would have thought, who heard the ftrain,

They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the feftal founding fhades,

To fome unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kifs'd the strings,

Love fram'd with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her treffes feen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidft his frolic play,

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

O Mufic, fphere-defcended maid,
Friend of pleafure, wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddess, why to us denied?
Lay't thou thy antient lyre afide?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all commanding power,
Thy mimic foul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native fimple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arife, as in that elder time,

Warm, energic, chafte, fublime!

Thy

Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sifter's page-
"Tis faid, and I believe the tale,

Thy humbleft Reed could more prevail,
Had more of ftrength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Even all at once together found
Cæcilia's mingled world of found -
O bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the juft defigns of Greece,
Return in all thy fimple state!
Confirm the tales her fons relate!

ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS
EDITION OF SHAKESPEAR'S WORKS.

Hile born to bring the Mufe's happier days,

WHil

A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays,

While nurs'd by you fhe fees her myrtles bloom,

Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb :
Excufe her doubts, if yet she fears to tell
What fecret tranfports in her bofom fwell;

With conscious awe fhe hears the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespear's name.
Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd,
Unown'd by science, and by years obfcur'd:
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing fighs confess'd
A fixt despair in every tuneful breast.
Not with more grief th' afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frofts the ruin'd feats invade
Where Peace reforted, and the Graces play'd.

Fach