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ODE for MUSIC

ON

ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

I.

DESCEND, ye Nine! defcend and fing;

The breathing inftruments infpire,

Wake into voice each filent ftring,
And sweep the founding lyre!
In a fadly-pleafing strain

Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet found

NOTES.

Ode for Mufic.) This is one of the most artful as well as fublime of our Poet's smaller compofitions. The first stanza expreí. fes the various tones and measures in music. The second defcribes their power over the feveral paffions in general. The third explains their ufe in infpiring the Heroic paffions in particular. The fourth, fifth, and fixth, their power over all nature in the fable of Orpheus's expedition to hell; which fubject of illuftration arofe naturally out of the preceding mention of the Argonautic expedition, where Orpheus gives the example of the ufe of Mufic to infpire the heroic paflions. The feventh and laft conclude in praise of Mufic, and the advantages of the facred above the prophane.

VER. 7. Let the loud trumpet found, &c.) Our Author in his rules for good writing had faid, that the found should be an echo to the fenfe. The graces it adds to the harmony are obvious. But we should never have feen all the advantages arising from this rule, had this ode not been written. In which, one may venture to fay, is found all the harmony that poetic found, when it comes in aid of fenfe, is capable of producing.

'Till the roofs all around

The fhrill echoes rebound;

While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep, najeftic, folemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers foft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rife

And fill with fpreading founds the fkies;
Exulting in triumph now fwell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild mufic floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and fmall,
The ftrains decay,

And melt away.

In a dying, dying fall.

II.

By Mufic, minds an equal temper know,
Nor fwell too high, nor fink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Mufic her foft, affuafive voice applies;

Or, when the foul is press'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors fhe fires with animated founds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:
Melancholy lifts her head,

Morpheus rouzes from his bed,

Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Lift'ning Envy drops her fnakes;

Inteftine war no more our Paffions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away their rage.

III.

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But when our Country's caufe provokes to Arms. How martial mufic ev'ry bofom warns!

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So when the firft bold veffel dar'd the feas
High on the ftern the Thracian rais'd his ftrain,
While Argo faw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods ftood round,
And men grew heroes at the found,
Enflam'd with glory's charm:
Each chief his fev'nfold fhield display'd,
And half unfheath'd the fhining blade:
And feas, and rocks, and fkies rebound
To arins, to arms, to arms!

But when thro' all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegeton surrounds,

Love, ftrong as Death, the Poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,

What founds were heard,

What scenes appear'd,

O'er all the dreary coafts!

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Dreadful gleans,

Difmal fcreams,

Fires that glow,

Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans

And cries of tortur'd ghosts!

But hark! he ftrikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghofts refpire,

See, fhady forms advance!

Thy ftone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion refts upon his wheel,

And the pale fpetres dance!

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The Furies fink upon their iron beds, ndrysler

And snakes uncurl'd hang lift'ning ronnd their heads,

V.

By the ftreams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er th' Elyfian flow'rs;

By thofe happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,
Or Amaranthine bow'rs;
By the hero's armed fhades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,

Reftore, restore Eurydice to life:

Oh take the husband, or return the wife!

He fung, and hell confented

To hear the Poet's prayer:

Stern Proferpine relented,

And gave him back the fair.
Thus fong could prevail
O'er death, and o'er hell,

A conqueft how hard and how glorious?
Tho' fare had faft bound her

With Styx nine times round her

Yet mufic and love were victorious.

VI.

But foon, too foon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again fhe falls, again fhe dies, fhe dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal fifters move?
No crime was thine, if'tis no crime to love.

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