 | Poems |  |
30
ADDRESS TO AN EMINENT MUSICIAN.
Tho' he, who Pindar's mighty name
Assumes, may higher raise thy fame,
Lov'd by the Muse, in sweeter lays
May sing thy peerless merit's praise;
Yet, Minstrel of the Graces, hear,
Nor blame this artless song sincere.
Assumes, may higher raise thy fame,
Lov'd by the Muse, in sweeter lays
May sing thy peerless merit's praise;
Yet, Minstrel of the Graces, hear,
Nor blame this artless song sincere.
O thou, whose soft impassion'd strains
Have power to soothe Love's sharpest pains,
Strike, pensive strike the trembling string,
In soul-subduing measures sing!
For while with chaste Orphéan fire
Thy magic touch awakes the lyre,
In sweet oblivion lost, by thee
My senses sink in extasy.—
I hear the warbling wires resound:
My rapt soul spurns earth's dreary mound,
With thee my ravish'd fancy flies
To fairer climes, to purer skies;
No fears disturb, no cares annoy,
Each thought is love, each accent joy!
Have power to soothe Love's sharpest pains,
Strike, pensive strike the trembling string,
In soul-subduing measures sing!
For while with chaste Orphéan fire
Thy magic touch awakes the lyre,
In sweet oblivion lost, by thee
My senses sink in extasy.—
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My rapt soul spurns earth's dreary mound,
With thee my ravish'd fancy flies
To fairer climes, to purer skies;
No fears disturb, no cares annoy,
Each thought is love, each accent joy!
But when of Delia's stern disdain
I hear the slighted youth complain,
How oft, dissolv'd in tenderest woe,
Thy numbers bid my sorrows flow!
Yet tho' I breathe unceasing sighs,
Tho' tears of pity fill mine eyes;
So sadly pleasing seems my grief
That scarce my bosom seeks relief:
Drown'd in delight, I still attend,
Nor wish the mourner's plaint to end.
I hear the slighted youth complain,
How oft, dissolv'd in tenderest woe,
Thy numbers bid my sorrows flow!
Yet tho' I breathe unceasing sighs,
Tho' tears of pity fill mine eyes;
So sadly pleasing seems my grief
That scarce my bosom seeks relief:
Drown'd in delight, I still attend,
Nor wish the mourner's plaint to end.
Had Collins, whose bright Muse so well
Th' entrancing force of sound could tell,
Known all the strength of modern art,
Or felt the joys thy notes impart;
Ne'er would the bard of soul sublime
Have mourn'd in ever-during rhime
That Music now ‘to us denied’
Had laid ‘her antient lyre aside,’
Since every polish'd grace refin'd
That charm'd of old the Attic mind,
Since all the powers to thine belong,
His Muse ascrib'd to Grecian song.
Th' entrancing force of sound could tell,
Known all the strength of modern art,
Or felt the joys thy notes impart;
Ne'er would the bard of soul sublime
Have mourn'd in ever-during rhime
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Had laid ‘her antient lyre aside,’
Since every polish'd grace refin'd
That charm'd of old the Attic mind,
Since all the powers to thine belong,
His Muse ascrib'd to Grecian song.
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