With woeful measures wan Despair
  Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
  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 delightful 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 theme 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 his 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 naught 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 sate 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 an 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 how 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 addressed;
  But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
  Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.