Feinberg/Whitman Notes and Notebooks Notes--Misc. Undated William Collins "The Passions" Marginalia Box 41 Folder 18 1876 Marginalia in Collins's Ode. A.MS. (6p. 15.5 x 10.5 cm) Written in blue pencil on pp. 299-304 of a book of poems by William Collins (pp. 299-300 is not the whole page), apparently pasted in a notebook and removed, 3 words and numerous lines (through various stanzas and across lines of poetry)--'Ode on the Poetical Character' (p. 304) has [a] 2 lines through the whole poem on the page--above the title 'The Passions', is (printed caps) 'Collins Ode on THE PASSIONS WILLIAM COLLINS. 301 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. Ode on [T]HE PASSIONS --- Collins 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, Possess'd 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, [????] 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 sound so full of wo. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; Vol I.--C c [As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return ! For when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, as his warning lamp The fragrant hour, and elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and healthy scene, Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams.] WILLIAM COLLINS. 301 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 hands the strings, With woful measures wan Despair Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, oh Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? Still it whisper'd 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 call'd 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-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 sound so full of wo. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; Vol I.--C c 302 WILLIAM COLLINS. 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 strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught 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 upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through 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 oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, 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-eye queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear WILLIAM COLLINS. 303 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, 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 Tempé'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. 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. Oh 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 learn'd an all-commanding power, Thy mimic soul, oh nymph endear'd, Can well recall what then it heard. Where is they native, simple heart, Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energic, chaste, sublime! They wonders in that godlike age Fill they recording sister's page. 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, They humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age, E'en all at once together found, Caecilia's mingled world of sound. Oh, bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate! 304 WILLIAM COLLINS. ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER. As once, if not with light regard I read aright that gifted bard (Him whose school above the rest His loveliest elfin-queen has bless'd), One, only one unrivall'd fair Might hope the magic girdle wear, At solemn tournay hung on high, The wish of each love-darting eye; Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied, As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame, With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band It left unbless'd her loathed, dishonour'd side; Happier, hopeless fair, if never Her baffled hand with vain endeavour Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied! Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, To whom, prepared and bathed in heaven, The cest of amplest power is given, To few the godlike gift assigns, To gird their bless'd prophetic loins, And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd he The band, as fairy legends say, [flame Was wove on that creating day. When he, who call'd with thought to birth Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, And dress'd with springs and forests tall, And pour'd the main engirting all, Long by the loved enthusiast woo'd, Himself in some diviner mood, Retiring, sate with her alone, And placed her on his sapphire throne : The whiles, the vaulter shrine around, Seraphic wires were heard to sound, Now sublimest triumph swelling, Now on love and mercy dwelling : And she, from out the veiling cloud, Breathed her magic notes aloud : Transcribed and reviewed by contributors participating in the By The People project at crowd.loc.gov.