THE
PASSIONS
,
AN
ODE
FOR
MUSIC
.
BY
THE
SAME
.
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
,
Even
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
bad
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
thro'
all
the
song
;
And
where
her
sweetest
theme
she
chose
,
A
soft
responsive
voice
was
heard
at
every
close
,
And
Hope
enchanted
smil'd
,
and
wav'd
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
tho'
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
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
Hate
.
With
eyes
up-rais'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
thro'
the
mellow
horn
her
pensive
soul
:
And
dashing
soft
from
rocks
around
,
Bubbling
runnels
join'd
the
sound
;
Thro'
glades
and
glooms
the
mingled
measure
stole
,
Or
o'er
some
haunted
streams
with
fond
delay
,
Round
an
holy
calm
diffusing
,
Love
of
peace
,
and
lonely
musing
,
In
hollow
murmurs
died
away
.
But
O
,
how
alter'd
was
its
sprightlier
tone
!
When
Chearfulness
,
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-eyed
queen
,
Satyrs
and
sylvan
boys
were
seen
,
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
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
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
antient
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
recall
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
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
,
Even
all
at
once
together
found
Caecilia'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
!