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When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When, in the valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging God shall close the book of rate, And there the last assizes keep For those who wake, and those who sleep ; When rattling bones together fly, From the four corners of the sky; When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; The sacred Poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint! before the quire shall go, As harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

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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 corded 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 foe's 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 rais'd the wonder higher,
When to her Organ vocal breath was giv'n;
An angel heard, and straight appear'd,
Mistaking earth for Heav'n.


As from the pow'r 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.


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OW yonder ivy courts the oak,

And clips it with a false embrace ! So I abide a wanton's yoke,

And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

How fain the tree would swell its rind !

But, vainly trying, it decays.
So fares it with my shackled mind,

So wastes the vigour of my days.
And soon our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.
A lass, forlorn for lack of grace,

My kindly pity first did move; And, in a little moment's space,

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And now

death must prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. For now she rules me with her look,

And round me winds her harlot chain; Whilst, by a strange enchantment struck,

My nobler will recoils in vain. And soon my death will prove, I

guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. But, had the oak denied its shade,

The weed had trail'd in dust below; And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness

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Published by W. SUTTABY, CROSBY and Co. and SCATCHERD and LETTERMAN,

Stationers Court.


Corrall, Printer, Charing Cross

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