ODE

ΟΝ

St. CECILIA's Day,

1708.

AND OTHER

PIECES for MUSIC.

F 4

ODE for MUSIC

ON

St. CECILIA's Day.

D

I.

Efcend ye Nine! descend and fing;
The breathing inftruments inspire,
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,
'Till the roofs all around

The fhrill echo's rebound:

While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep, majeftic, folemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers, foft and clear,
Gently fteal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rife,

And fill with spreading founds the skies;

Exulting in triumph now fwell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild mufic floats;

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;

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25

Or when the foul is prefs'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.

But when our Country's cause provokes to Arms,
How martial mufic ev'ry bofom warms!

So when the first bold veffel dar'd the feas,
High on the ftern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo faw her kindred trees
Defcend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods ftood round,
And men grew heroes at the found,

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En

Enflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his fev'nfold fhield display'd,
And half unfheath'd the shining blade:
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms!

IV.

45

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

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!
Dreadful gleams,

Dismal screams,

Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

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60

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghosts!

But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghosts respire,

See, fhady forms advance!

Thy ftone, O Syfiphus, ftands ftill,
Ixion refts upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance!

The Furies fink upon their iron beds,

And snakes uncurl'd hang lift'ning round their heads.

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V.

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