« VorigeDoorgaan »
In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair,
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, To shield your harvest, and defend your fair : The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue, Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo. Wild as his land, in native deserts bred, By lust incited, or by malice led, The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey, Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way; Yet none so cruel as the Tartar foe, 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.
BY WILLIAM COLLINS.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amidst the chords bewilderd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev’n at the sound hiinself 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 woful measures wan Despair
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; 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 promised 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 call'd on Echo still, through all the songs
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 :
And, with a withering look,
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
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 seein'd bursting from
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate.
And, dashing soft from rocks around,
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 bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,
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 :
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
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, Ih numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;