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 oh, 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 addressed;
       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 Tempe’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 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 ancient lyre aside? 
As in that loved, Athenian bower
You learned an all-commanding power. 
Thy mimic soul; O nymph endeared! 
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, energetic, 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,
E’en all at once together found
Cecilia’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!

COLLINS.

[Notes:  William Collins (1720-1756).  A poet, who throughout life struggled with adversity, and who, though he produced little, refined everything he wrote with a most fastidious taste and with elaborate care.