Last came Joy's ecstatic trial;

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk awakening 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 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 lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!

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,

Even 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!

AN EPISTLE,

ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER,

ON HIS

EDITION OF SHAKSPEARE'S WORKS.

WHILE born to bring the Muse's happier days,

A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays,

While nurs'd by you she sees her myrtles bloom,

Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb:

Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell

What secret transports in her bosom swell:

With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,

And blushing hides her wreath at Shakspeare's name. Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd,

Unown'd by Science, and by years obscur'd:

Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd
A fixt despair in every tuneful breast.

Not with more grief th' afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frosts the ruin'd seats invade,
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd.

Each rising art by just gradation moves,

Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves :
The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,

And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserv'd thro' time, the speaking scenes impart

Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curse that mark'd the * Theban's reign,
A bed incestuous, and a father slain.

The Edipus of Sophocles.