But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 70 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, 75 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: 80 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 85 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 framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: 90 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, 95 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 learn'd an all commanding power, 100 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, 105 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, 110 Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age; E'en all at once together found, Cecilia's mingled world of sound-- O bid our vain endeavours cease; 115 Revive the just designs of Greece: Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate! VARIATION. Ver. 30. What was thy delightful measure? ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. THE SCENE IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND. In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet's sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 5 His airy harp[37] shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade.