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s À N G. AT setting day and rising morn,

1 Wi' soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask of heav'n thy safe return,

Wi' a' that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush,

Where first thou kindly tald me Sweet tales of love, and hid my blush,

Wbilst round thou didst enfald me. To a' our haunts I will repair,

By greenwood shaw or fountain;
Or where the simmer day I'd share

Wi' thee upon yon mountain.
There will I tell the trees and flow'rs,,

From thoughts unfeign'd and tender,
By vows you're mine, by love is your's

A heart which cannot wander.

S A N G. THE bonny grey-ey'd morning begins to peep,

And darkness flies before the rising ray, The hearty hynd starts from his lazy sleep,

To follow healthful labours of the day, Without guilty sting to wrinkle his brow,

The lark and the linnet 'tend his levee, And he joins their concert, driving the plow,

From toil of grimace and pageantry free.
While fluster'd with wine, or madden'd with loss

Of half an estate, the prey of a main,
The drunkard and gamester tumble and toss,

Wishing for calmness and slumber in vain.
Be my portion health and quietness of mind,

Plac'd at a due distance from parties and state, Where neither ambition for avarice blind, Reach him who has happiness link'd to his fate.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

THE PASSIONS.

An Ode for Music.
W HEN 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, refin'd:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd;
Filld 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 ruld 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 bad 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 beguil'd;
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 bade the lovely scenes at distance hail;
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She callid on Echo still thro' all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd 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 tho' 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 uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measures stole Or o'er some haunted streams 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, a

Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, .

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown's sisters and their chaste-ey'd queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leap'd up, and siez'd 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 lov'd 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 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,
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,
Ev'n all at once together found
Cæcilia'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!

ODE TO FEAR. THOU, to whom the world unknown,

1 With all its shadowy shapes, is shewn; Who seest, appall'd, the unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veil between :

Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!

I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step; thy haggard eye! Like thee I start; like thee disorder'd fly. For lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fix'd behold? Who stalks his round, an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm; Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep: And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind : And those, the fiends, who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks, preside; Whilst Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare : On whom that ravening brood of Fate Who lap the blood of sorrow wait:

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