THE PASSIONS, AN ODE FOR MUSIC. William Collins Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T124631 1073 K099398.000 Mendez, Moses. A collection of the most esteemed pieces of poetry: that have appeared for several years. With variety of originals, by the late Moses Mendez, Esq; and other contributors to Dodsley's collection. To which this is intended as a supplement. London printed for Richardson and Urquhart 1767 pp. 24-28. [8],320p. ; 8⁰.

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THE PASSIONS , AN ODE FOR MUSIC . BY THE SAME . 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 , Possest 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 fir'd , 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 . First Fear his hand , its skill to try , Amid the chords bewilder'd laid , And back recoil'd he knew not why , Even at the sound himself had made . 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 . With woeful measures wan Despair — Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd , A solemn , strange , and mingled air , 'Twas sad by fits , by starts 'twas wild . But thou , O Hope , with eyes so fair , What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure , And bad the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong , And from the rocks , the woods , the vale , She call'd on Echo still thro' all the 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 . 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 O , how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! When Chearfulness , a nymph of healthiest hue , Her bow across her shoulder flung , 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 . 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 antient 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 , energic , 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 Caecilia'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 !