ODE

ON

EOLUS's HARP*.

ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove;
Ye unseen beings to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.
Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid,
With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart!
Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who died of love, these sweet complainings part.
But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he the sacred bard †, who sat alone,

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; And to such sadly solemn notes are strung

Angelic harps, to sooth a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

Through heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise ; Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wand'ring spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

Eolus's harp is a musical instrument which plays with the wind, invented by Mr. Oswald; its properties are fully described in the Castle of Indolence.

† Jeremiah.

HYMN

ON

SOLITUDE.

HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude,

Companion of the wise and good!
But from whose holy piercing eye
The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease, And still in every shape you please. Now wrapt in some mysterious dream, A lone philosopher you seem; Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you sweep the vaulted sky. A shepherd next, you haunt the plain, And warble forth your oaten strain :"A lover now, with all the grace Of that sweet passion in your face: Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume The gentle-looking HARFORD's bloom, As, with her MUSIDORA, she (Her MUSIDORA fond of thee) Amid the long withdrawing vale, Awakes the rival'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,

Just as the dew-bent rose is born;

And while meridian fervors beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage, and swain; Plain Innocence, in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head: Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine: About thee sports sweet Liberty;

And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell,

And in thy deep recesses dwell!
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,

I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's spiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

S. Hamilton, Printer, Falcon-Court, Fleet-Street, London.