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, ’tis 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 woful 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 delighted measure? 
       Still it whispered promised pleasure,
          And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail;
       Still would her touch the scene 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 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