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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, 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;
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throngʻd around her magic cell,

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined :
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
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 ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.

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 :
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 though 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 seein'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 up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired ;
And, from her wild seqüester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweět,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul :

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,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
The oak-crown's sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,

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 :
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: 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 framed 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 denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, 0 nymph endear'd,
Can well recall 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,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
O bid our vain endeavors cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece :
Return in all thy simple state !
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

ODE TO SIMPLICITY. .

BY WILLIAM COLLINS.

O THOU, by nature taught

To breathe her genuine thought, Ih numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;

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