A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687. FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony,
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries, hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful, dame.
But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher :
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking earth for heaven.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the bless'd above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
THE FAIR STRANGER:
ADDRESSED TO LOUISA QUEROUAILLE, AFTERWARDS
DUCHESS OF PORTSMOUTH.
HAPPY and free, securely blest,
No beauty could disturb my rest;
My amorous heart was in despair,
To find a new victorious fair:
Till you descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without control
The mighty sovereign of my soul
Your smiles have more of conquering charms,
Than all your native country arms:
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please,
But in your eyes, oh! there's the spell,
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay,
Yet kill us if you go away.
CLARENDON had law and sense,
Clifford was fierce and brave;
Bennet's grave look was a pretence,
And Danby's matchless impudence
Help'd to support the knave.
But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory,
These will appear such chits in story,
"Twill turn all politics to jests,
To be repeated like John Dory,
When fiddlers sing at feasts.
Protect us, mighty Providence,
What would these madmen have?
First, they would bribe us without pence,
Deceive us without common sense,
And without power enslave.
Shall free-born men, in humble awe,
Submit to servile shame;
Who from consent and custom draw
The same right to be ruled by law,
Which kings pretend to reign ?
The duke shall wield his conquering sword,
The chancellor make a speech,
The king shall pass his honest word,
The pawn'd revenue sums afford,
And then, come kiss my breech.
So have I seen a king on chess
(His rooks and knights withdrawn, His queen and bishops in distress) Shifting about, grow less and less, With here and there a pawn.
FAREWELL, fair Armida, my joy and my grief,
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
Undone by our virtue, too strict and severe,
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair:
Now call'd by my honour, I seek with content
The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
To languish in love, were to find by delay
A death that's more welcome the speediest way.
On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
The danger is less than in hopeless desire ;
My death's wound you give, though far off I bear
My fall from your sight-not to cost you a tear:
But if the kind flood on a wave should convey
And under your window my body should lay,
The wound on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh-it was given by me.
A CHOIR of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To choose a May-lady to govern the year;
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green;
The garland was given, and Phillis was queen:
But Phillis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more:
The soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires,
Has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires:
And vows that himself, and his mother, will mourn,
"Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more,
For we will perform what the deity swore:
But if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms:
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx, return.
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