Led to thee the smiling boy,
Though lynx-eyed Jealousy stood near
And listened with a cunning ear;

Whilst Melancholy, from the shade

Of russet woodlands came, sad, broken-hearted maid!

II. 2.

As fervently Pygmalion prest

Erst the cold marble, till with life it glowed,
So, from thy birth, the passion flowed,
Tempered to chaste sensation, in thy breast,
For the coy nymph of modest eye,
Nature's sweet child, Simplicity,

Till the pure essence of her birth became

Thine, and her's the holy flame,

That burned within thy bosom's sacred shrine :

And not with love more pure than thine

The daughters fair of Pyrrha's race

Gave to Deucalion's sons their youth and virgin grace.

II. 3.

When thy soul, to rapture wrought,

Inspiration's brightness caught,

Freer than the morning wind,

It left this dwindling world behind,

And purer regions sought!

And still thy hand, ambitious ever,

Reached to more sublime endeavour!-
Child of song! thou didst inherit

Amphion's fire and untamed pride,

And the Theban's* eagle spirit
Soaring o'er Ismenus' tide.

Yet to more soft enchantment did thy hand
Sweep the light chords of Sappho's thrilling lute,
As by Ilissus' stream in Grecian land

Her fingers taught the chastened chord to suit
A broken spirit,—and the quivering wire

Breathed to the echoing air with Love's decaying fire.

III. 1.

Softly, as when the zephyr's wing

Fans the soft chord at evening's holy tide,
Or, where the babbling waters glide,

The breathing lute, with melancholy string,
Sounds sadly to the morning gale
When night withdraws her sable veil,
Could the enchanter Love's divine control
Soothe to numbers sweet thy soul,

And give to feeling a more hallowed tone ;-
And so, when from her solemn throne
Grief touched with chastening hand thy heart,
It beat to sadder measures with diviner art.

III. 2.

Lo! slowly moves the pageant train !

And, as from angel harps soft musick breaks,

When the unfettered spirit takes

Its farewell parting from the world and pain,
So, on the ravished ear grows mute

* Pindar.

The musick of the love-strung lute!

Again the seraph sings from yon light cloud ;

Mimick Echo laughs aloud,

Where Comus and his Bacchanalian band

Of Satyrs, moving hand in hand,

And sylvan nymphs, with roses crowned,

The car of Thalia draw with lutes of silver sound.

III. 3.

Not unto the Paphian Queen,
Moving in her silver sheen,

Be the song, for now is hung
O'er his tomb the lyre unstrung,
And wreathed with cypress sad!
See, see its master-spirit languish !
Tuned each quivering chord to anguish,
Till, with madness in its numbers,

Bursts the string, HE swept before!

Never, woken from its slumbers,
Never, hand may sweep it more!
The earth has taken back the dust it gave,
And sadly now, with melancholy eye,
Afflicted Memory lingers round his grave,

And evening winds the dirge of Genius sigh,
Whilst there the pilgrim's solemn footsteps turn,

And Beauty weeps at night o'er Love's forsaken urn.

III.

Cantando tu illum?

Virg. Ecl. III.

When Truth began to sweep the pall
Of Ignorance from men benighted,
When Bigotry foresaw her fall,

And dawning Reason beamed on all,

When Fancy, too, her torch had lighted,

And now the world, with rapturous joy, was hailing Its freedom from the night that long had bound it, A star arose, with lustre never failing,

To throw its steady beam in brightness round it: The morning star,

Which ushered in the day,

Which boldly swept away

The mists of darkness flying far!

The morning star, which ushers in the day,
When eve approaches, with its silver ray,
Will still adorn the beauteous heaven,
The god of morn-the god of even.
Oh! glorious star, such is thy happy lot,
First to be worshipped and adored, and last forgot!

All was in grovelling ignorance obscured—
Imagination dared not raise her pinion-

Men were in lowly thoughts too much immured
To soar aloft to Fancy's bright dominion,

And Poesy languished, Wit was in its grave,
The Stage despised, the Drama in disgrace,—
When Shakspeare, Shakspeare rose, and gave
To them their lofty place,

And won himself the throne,

Where each succeeding race

Shall bow, and bend the knee, to him, and him alone!

Where, where are they, who cannot feel

His power, to them appealing,

His magick o'er them stealing,
Whose breasts are not of steel?
Who shall not own his potent sway?
Who shall refuse his impulse to obey ?
The glittering tear is swelling
In Beauty's moistened eye,
While she is fondly dwelling

On Juliet's sweetness, hopes, her love and agony.
With deep-felt sighs each bosom heaves,
Whene'er Ophelia, in her sadness, grieves,
And pours, with softest mildness,
Her strains of sorrowing wildness

So piteously forth, rude souls would melt,
And sympathetic throbs, in flinty hearts, be felt.

And then, with cruel horrors rife,

Behold the Thane of Cawdor and his wife-
She boldly urges on his hellish deeds—

He falters, she upbraids-she chides and he proceeds,