In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair, Their eyes' blue languish, and their golden hair! Those eyes in tears their fruitless grief must send; Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend. AGIB. Ye Georgian swains, that piteous learn from far Circassia's ruin, and the waste of war; Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare, Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way; To death inured, and nursed in scenes of woe. He said; when loud along the vale was heard A shriller shriek, and nearer fires appear'd: 'Th' affrighted shepherds, through the dews of night, Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their flight. ODE ON THE PASSIONS. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young; While yet in early Greece she sung, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, From the supporting myrtles round First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rush'd: his eyes on fire, With woful measures wan Despair- But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 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; The war-denouncing trumpet took, The doubling drum with furious heat; 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; 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 sat retired ; And, from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole, Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's extatic trial: He, with viny crowns advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: To some unwearied minstrel dancing, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: As if he would the charming air repay, O Music! sphere-descended maid, Why, goddess! why, to us denied, ODE TO SIMPLICITY. BY WILLIAM COLLINS. O THOU, by nature taught To breathe her genuine thought, In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; |