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In a sadly pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain;
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound;
While in more lengthen'd notes and slow
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies :
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats ·
Till by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
By music minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft assuasive voice applies;
Or when the soul is press’d with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Listening Envy drops her snakes ;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions hear away their rage.
But when our country's cause provokes to arms, How martial music
bosom warms! So when the first bold vessel dar'd the
seas, High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain, While Argo saw her kindred trees Descend from Pelion to the main : Transported demigods stood round, And men grew heroes at the sound, Inflam'd with glory's charms : Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, And half unsheath'd the shining blade; And
seas, and rocks, and skies rebound To arms, to arms, to arms!
But when through all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as death, the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear’d,
O’er all the dreary coasts!
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts !
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre :
And see! the tortur'd ghosts respire;
See, shady forms advance !
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance;
The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O’er th’ Elysian flowers ;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or amaranthine bowers :
By the heroes' armed shades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life;
Oh, take the husband, or return the wife :
He sung, and hell consented
To hear the poet's prayer :
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.
Thus song could prevail
O'er death and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious !
Though fate had fast bound her,
With Styx nine times round her
Yet music and love were victorious.
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes ;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies !
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost!
Now with Furies surrounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows:
See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies;
Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals'
he dies! Yet e'en in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue ; Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's severest rage
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please :
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker's praise confin’d the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th' immortal powers incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And angels lean from heaven to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater power is given :
His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to heaven.
ITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS ABOUT TWELVE
HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.