Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more-- O! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now! Tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate: Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great. T. GRAY. 141. THE PASSIONS. _An Ode for Music._ 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, raised, refined: 'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 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 ruled 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, E'en 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 beguiled, A solemn strange and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.