reflecting what a mighty store was laid of rich materials, and a model made: the cost already furnish'd; so bestow'd, as more was never to one soul allow'd: yet, after this profusion spent in vain, nothing but mouldering ashes to remain, I guess not, lest I spilt upon the shelf, yet, durst I guess, heaven kept it for himself; and giving us the use, did soon recal, ere we could spare, the mighty principal. Thus then he disappear'd, was rarify'd; for 't is improper speech to say he dy'd: he was exhal'd; his great Creator drew his spirit, as the sun the morning dew. 'Tis sin produces death; and he had none but the taint Adam left on every son. He added not, he was so pure, so good, 't was but th' original forfeit of his blood: and that so little, that the river ran more clear than the corrupted fount began. Nothing remain'd of the first muddy clay; the length of course had wash'd it in the way; so deep, and yet so clear, we might behold the gravel bottom, and that bottom gold. As such we lov'd, admir'd, almost ador'd, gave all the tribute mortals could afford, perhaps we gave so much, the powers above grew angry at our superstitious love: for when we more than human homage pay, the charming cause is justly snatch'd away. Thus was the crime not his, but our's alone: and yet we murmur that he went so soon; tho' miracles are short and rarely shown. Hear then, ye mournful parents, and divide that love in many, which in one was ty'd. A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687: when nature underneath a heap and could not heave her head, the tuneful voice was heard from high, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, From harmony, from heavenly harmony, from harmony to harmony through all the compass of the notes it ran, the dispason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell! his listening brethren stood around, 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? 22 A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. Dryden. 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, 't is too late to retreat. The soft complaining flute the woes of hopeless lovers, whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. their jealous pangs, and desperation, depth of pains, and height of passion, But oh! what art can teach, what human voice can reach the sacred organ's praise? notes that wing their heavenly ways to mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage Lace, but bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher: GRAND CHORUS. 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. ALEXANDER'S FEAST: OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. 'T was at the royal feast, for Persia won aloft in awful state the godlike hero sate on his imperial throne: his valiant peers were plac'd around; their brows with roses and with myrtles bound. (So should desert in arms be crown'd:) the lovely Thais, by his side, sate like a blooming Eastern bride, none but the brave, none but the brave, none but the brave deserves the fair. CHORUS. Happy, happy, happy pair! &c. Timotheus, plac'd on high amid the tuneful quire, with flying fingers touch'd the lyre: the trembling notes ascend the sky, The and heavenly joys inspire. song began from Jove, who left his blissful seats above, (such is the power of mighty love.) A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god: sublime on radiant spires he rode, when he to fair Olympia press'd: and while he sought her snowy breast: then, round her slender waist he curl'd, and stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of The listening croud admire the lofty sound, a present deity the vaulted roofs rebound: the monarch hears, affects to nod, and seems to shake the spheres. CHORUS. With ravish'd ears the monarch hears, and seems to shake the spheres. [sung The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung of Bacchus ever fair and ever young; the jolly god in triumph comes; sound the trumpets; beat the drums; flush'd with a purple grace he shews his honest face: now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, drinking is the soldier's pleasure: rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is pleasure after pain. |