And longer had she sung,-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose, He threw his blood-stain'd 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 tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But Oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and Sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. |