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We'll ask no long protracted treat,
But when our feast is o'er,
The relics of our store. Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead. While Conscience, like a faithful friend, Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath; Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.
WHEN Music, heavenly
maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refind, Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. 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 woeful measures, wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds, his grief beguild; A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
And where her sweetest theme she chose, ,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smild, and wav'd her golden
hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,
And, with a withering look,
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat; And tho' sometimes, cach 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!
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;
Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,
And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear, Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd,
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
While, as his fying fingers kiss'd strings, Love fram'd 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 odors from his dewy wings. O Music, sphere-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, Why, Goddess, why, to us deny'd, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? As in that lov'd Athenian bower, You learn'd an all-commanding power, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd, Can well recal what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh:
To wretches such as I !
What sickening scenes appear!
Must be my bitter doom ;
But with the closing tomb !