Symphony I. on the Music of Poesy

Queen of the song, O Muse, thy parent dear, Bright Fancy, thy sole guardian never rose; Tho' ever she precede thy wandering way, Fresh flowers to strew in wild profusion gay; To Harmony thy heart did still disclose Like amity, as oft thy raptured ear With sweetest airs she charmed, or solemn tones severe.

The sonorous trump she blows, that hill and dale Resound with all their echoes. At her call The grizly, war prepares his deadly storms, The lightning of the sword and fulgent arms, The thunder of the conflict, and dire rain Sanguine, that deluges the boisterous field. Stern Slaughter and the horrid form of Death Exert their terrors; Anguish, and Dismay, And Desolation. Clad in steel and panoply Exulting Valour waves his crimson crest, And shews the tide of battle where to roar. O'er the grim scene the Muse ascending sings Sublime in glory, and with golden light Illumes the raging tempest; as the sun, When thro' embattled clouds he pours the day, Gilding with richest blaze the dark of heaven.

Far other when the rural pipe she plies, With flowing rills the flowing music vies; By simple huts and verdant vales she roves, Romantic bowers and visionary groves, Of love repeating much, and love's disdain, The melting transport, and the pleasing pain.

The tragic lute to melancholy strains Of deepest woe she wakes and wild despair; The frequent tear declares her ample rule, Silence that speaks unutterable thoughts, The eye aghast with terrors extacy, And all the sober family of sorrow,

Alas! what warbled sorrows meet the ear, What notes of anguish fill the sighing gale, When from thy solitary mansions drear, O Elegy! is heard the plaintive tale Of Grace and Worth envied by sullen Death; Of all the fading vanities of man; Joined with the weeping viol's softest breath, That vibrates to the heart each dying strain.

Instinct with all thy living fire What verse can paint thy power, O lyre! As to the Muse's potent call Thy spectres fill her airy hall.

Now to Mirth the lay devoting And the florid tribe of joy; Dreams of fleeting bliss promoting Wanton airs in mazes floating All thy sacred art employ.

In sable stole arrayed Bedewed with falling tears When awful Grief appears, Chill and slow The melancholy measures flow; And pensive Pity lends her pious aid To tend the mournful maid.

'Hail thou form in shining cincture 'Clad of pure cerulean tincture, 'Ever may thy pleasing ray 'With bland benignity 'Heal the indignity 'Of cruel Chance, and Time's malignant sway.' Blyth Hope approves, and to the warbled air In many an antic maze leads her attendance fair.

Oh Fear, thou tyrant of the feeble mind! The languid line, That seems in sickly mood to pine, May ever move thy frantic influence blind. When Horror joins thy train, What phantoms fill the wizard plain! Stern ministers of Fate and guardians of his reign.

Rich the richest praise above Who can speak thy hymn, O Love; What air of minstrelsy divine Shall express Thy power to bless, Shall thy varied rule define?

Smite the deep shell with harshest hand! Rage in giant horrors clad, Rears aloft his ghastly head: Eyes that living lightnings glare, Frowning front, and horrent hair, The grizly king declare, As in Fancy's shrine he takes his gloomy stand.

Nor to the features sole of deepest shade, But every softer colour of the mind, Sweet Harmony attunes her magic power. So when the Morn dilates the dewey shower, The varying blooms a varying mirror find; Their lovely hues in lovelier light arrayed With gleams of brightest beauty paint the glowing glade.