For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared, There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, 5 Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks, And hoarse, low, shivering sobs, the very cry Of nature! And, when I at last said no, And those poor innocent babes between the stones CXXIX. THE PASSIONS. COLLINS. [WILLIAM COLLINS was born in Chichester, England, December 25, 1720, and died June 12, 1756. He was a man of sensitive nature and melancholy temperament. His last years were clouded with disease and insanity. Ilis poetical genius was of a high order, and many of his smaller poems are distinguished by imaginative splendor, an ethereal tone of sentiment, and subtle beauty of language. His "Ode to the Passions" is a very popular poem, and deservedly so, for nothing can surpass its picturesque energy, brilliant descriptions, and vivid coloring.] WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, From the supporting myrtles round, * Scudi is the plural of scudo, a silver coin nearly equivalent to a dollar. They snatched her instruments of sound; 2 First, Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid: And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. 3 Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, 4 With woful measures, wan Despair Low, sullen sounds!- his grief beguiled, 5 But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, close; 6 And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down; The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe; The doubling drum with furious heat: And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. 7 Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And, now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate. 8 With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild, sequestered seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole (Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing,) In hollow murmurs died away. 9 But, O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!. The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 10 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed: To some unwearied minstrel dancing: As if he would the charming air repay, NICOLAI KARAMSIN, a Russian historian and man of letters, was born in 1765, and died in 1826. His writings are numerous both in prose and verse, but his principal work, which was received with great favor by his countrymen, was a "History of Russia," in twelve volumes. FIRST VOICE. 1 How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear! With the howls of the storm-wind the creaks of the bier SECOND VOICE. 2 How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep: Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flowerets perfume it with ether. FIRST VOICE. 3 There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss. SECOND VOICE. 4 How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb: No tempests are there: - but the nightingales come, And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. FIRST VOICE. 5 The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave: 'Tis the vulture's abode; 't is the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. SECOND VOICE. 6 There the cony at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod; while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs. FIRST VOICE. 7 There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death; The trees are all barren and bare! SECOND VOICE. 8 O, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lies and jessamine fair. |