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Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below.
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,
But now the child half-weaned his heart from God;
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain,
And measured back his steps to earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run!
But God, to save the father, took the son.
To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go,
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow.
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety back?
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more."

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew ;
Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky;
The fiery pomp ascending left the view;
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too.
The berding Hermit here a prayer begun,

Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done." Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And passed a life of piety and peace.

William Collins.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

THEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell-
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting--
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.

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

Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings. In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair,

Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiledA solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair-—
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whispered promised 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 the song;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose ;

He threw his blood-stained 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 though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from

his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed-
Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;
And now it courted Love-now, raving, called on Hatc.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired;
And, from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of Peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung-
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seized 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 loved 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 kissed the strings, Love framed 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 loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
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 godlike 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-