CCII.

THE PASSIONS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched 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,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned 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 beguiled,

A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?

Still it whispered 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 called on Echo still through all the song;

And, where her sweetest notes 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 the blood-stained 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 unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed:

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;

And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild, sequestered seat,

In notes, by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined 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 altered was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!-
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crowned 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 leaped up, and seized 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 loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed 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.

W. Collins.

ссіп.

NEW ENGLAND.

HAIL to the land whereon we tread,

Our fondest boast;

The sepulchre of mighty dead,

The truest hearts that ever bled,

Who sleep on glory's brightest bed,

A fearless host:

No slave is here our unchained feet
Walk freely, as the waves that beat
Our coast.

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;

They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;

With bearts unbent, and spirits brave,
They sternly bore

Such toils as meaner souls had quelled;
But souls like these, such toils impelled
To soar.

Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height,

And, fearless stemmed the invading flood. And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight!

O! 't was a proud, exulting day,

For even our fallen fortunes lay

In light.

There is no other land like thee,

No dearer shore;

Thou art the shelter of the free;

The home, the port of liberty

Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,

Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon

Thy land, shall mother curse the son

She bore.

Thou art the firm unshaken rock,

On which we rest;

And rising from thy hardy stock,