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An Eden, like his own, lies spread;
I view that oak, the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,
Nigh spher'd in Heaven its nativestrains could hear;
On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung.
Thither oft his glory greeting,
From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,
With many a vow from hope's aspiring tongue,
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;
In vain—Such bliss to one alone
Of all the sons of soul was known;
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd th’ inspiring bowers,
Orcurtain'd close such scene from every future view.


If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales;

Onymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises midst the twilight path,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften’d strain,

Whose numbers stealing through thydarkeningvale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov’d return:

For when thy folding star arising shows

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day;

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with
And sheds the freshening dew; and lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,

Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,

And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he won

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;

Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!

THE PASSIONs, AN 0DE Fort Music.

When 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, Fill'd 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 rul'd 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:
Ev’n at the sound himself 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 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 call'd on Echo still through all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope inchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden And longer had she sung—but, with a frown, [hair. 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 beDejected Pity at his side [tween, 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 With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir’d, [Hate. Pale Melancholy sat retir’d, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; [stole; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But,0, 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'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, [queen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought,who heard thestrain, 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 string"; 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 odours from his dewy wing” 0 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 lov'd Athenian bower
You learn'd in all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O mymph 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, energic, 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 endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!


sung BY GUIDERIUS AND ARwir.AGUs over Fidele, supposed. To BE DEAD. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,

But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;

The female says shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew;

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell,

Or midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;

Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead.


The SCENE of the Following STANZAs is SUPPOsed
In yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wavel
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan gravel

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DYER—A. D. 1700-58.


Silent nymph, with curious eye:
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale;
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy sister Muse;
Now, while Phoebus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Gron gar, in whose mossy cells,
Sweetly musing, quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
Sooft I have, the evening still,
At the sountain of a rill,
Satu pon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head;
While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead, and over wood,'
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till contemplation had her fill.
About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And vistoes shooting beams of day:
Wide and wider spreads the vale;
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate 1
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.
Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow;
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,

Proudly towering in the skies!
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires:
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads!
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!
Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomry pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye:
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below ;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now th’ apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal’d in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state:
But transient is the smile of fate;
A little rule, a little sway,
A sun-beam in a winter's-day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.
And see the rivers how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;

Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody vallies, warm and low ;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an AEthiop's arm.
See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye
A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem ;
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through hope's deluding glass,
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those that journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.
& O may I with myself agree,

And never covet what I see:
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tam’d, my wishes laid;
For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high.
Be full, ye courts; be great who will;
Search for peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search, she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of care!
Grass and flowers quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with pleasure, close ally'd,
Ever by each other's side:
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

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