Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state:

Of different themes the veering song was mix'd;
And now it courted Love, now,raving, call'd on Hate.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
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;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure 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'dSisters and their chaste-ey'dQueen. Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear;

And Sport leap'd 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 the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amid the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
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 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 lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph 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, energetic, chaste, sublime!

Thy wonders in that god-like 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!

ODE

ON A

Distant Prospect of Eton College.

BY GRAY.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watry glade
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that, from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights, th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way!

Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shades!

Ah fields belov'd in vain!

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from you blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe;
And redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames (for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,)
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which inthral?

What idle progeny succeed,
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent,

Their murm'ring labours ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom Health of rosy hue,
Wild Wit, Invention ever new,

And lively Cheer, of Vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day:

Yet see how all around them wait,
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey the murd'rous band! Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that sculks behind;

F