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His mountains shine; and with new songs of love,
Allured the virgin's ear; so did the house,
The prison-house of guilt, and all th' abodes
Of unprovided helplessness, revive,

As on them looked the sunny messenger
Of charity,-by angels tended still,

That marked his deeds, and wrote them in the book
Of God's remembrance:-careless he to be
Observed of men; or have each mite bestowed,
Recorded punctual with name and place
In every bill of news: pleased to do good,
He gave and sought no more.

SECTION XII.

The Passions:-An Ode.

Pollok

1. WHEN music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round,

They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for madness rul'd the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power,

2. First, Fear, his hand its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

3. Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
4. With woful measures wan Despair,
In sullen sounds his grief beguil'd-
A solemn, strange, and mingled air-
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

5. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd 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 her song:
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

6. 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 wo,

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 unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

7. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixedSad 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.

8. With eyes uprais'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 through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole,

Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

(Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,)

In hollow murmurs died away.

9. But, O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung, Iler buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!-
The hunter's call, to Eat 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 leap'd up, and scized his beechen spear.

10. Last came Joy's ecstatie trial :

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd-
But soon he saw the brisk aakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd 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 kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd 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 odors from his dewy wings.-Collins.

SECTION XIII.

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.

1. THE curfew tolls-the knell of parting day-
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

2. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;-
3. Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,"
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

4. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow.cel forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

5. The breczy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

6. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or basy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return 2
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

7. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their terin afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

8. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

9. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, th' inevitable hour;—

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

II. Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

12. Perhaps, in this neglected-spot, is laid
Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

13. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

14. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

15. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, *. The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

16. Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

17. Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;-

18. The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, -
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame;
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride,

With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

19. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray: Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

20. Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial, still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

21. Their name, their years, spell'd by the unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

22. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
23. On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires:
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

2. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,'
If chance by lonely Contemplation led.
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate.--