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O DE

ON

ST. CECILIA'S DAY,

MDCC VIII.

AND OTHER

PIECES for MUSIC.

DS

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O D E for MUSIC

ON

ST. CECILI A's' D A Y.

I.
ESCEND, ye Nine! descend and fing;

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Wake into voice each filent ftring,.
And sweep the founding lyre!

In a sadly pleafing strain
Let the warbling lute complain :

Let the loud trumpet found,
Till the roofs all around

The thrill echoes rebound :
While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep, majestic, folemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers loft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder risë,

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,

And melt away,
In a dying, dying fall.

II.
By Music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low,,

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If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Mufic her soft, assuasive voice applies;

Or, when the soul is press’d with cares,

Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors the fires with animated sounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;

Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus roufes from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Lift'ning Envy drops her fnakes ;
Intestine war no more our Passions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away their rage.

III.
But when our Country's cause provokes to Arms,
How martial music ev'ry bosom warms!
So when the first bold veffel 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 demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,

Enflam'd with glory's charms :
Each chief his fev’nfold field display'd,
And half unsheath'd the thining blade :
And feas, and rocks, and kies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms!

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

Love, strong as Death, the Poets led

To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'd,

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O'er all the dreary coasts!

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Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts !
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghosts respire.

See, shady forms advance !
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion tests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance!
The Furies fink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang lif’ning round their heads.

V.
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er th' Elysian flow'rs;
By those happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,

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Or Amaranthine bow'rs;
By the hero's armed shades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,

So
Restore, restore Eurydice to life :
Oh take the husband, or return the wife !

He fung, and hell confented

To hear the Poet's prayer ;
Stern Proserpine relented,

And gave him back the fair.

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