Графични страници
PDF файл



· [Written in the year 1708.]


DESCEND, ye Nine ! descend, and sing ;

The breathing instruments inspire ;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre !

In a sadly-pleasing strain,
Let the warbling lute complain:

Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:
While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,

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.

By Music, minds an equal temper know,

Nor swell too high, nor sink too low :
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, .
Music her soft assuasive voice applies ;

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

Exalts her in enliv’ning airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds,
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds

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

List’ning Envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions hear away their rage.

But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel 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 demigods stood round,

And men grew heroes at the sound,

Inflam’d with Glory's charms:
Each chief his sev’nfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade;
And seas, and rocks, and skies, rebound,

To arms, to arms, to arms!
But when through all th’infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegeton surrounds,

[ocr errors]

Love, strong as Death, the Poet led

To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'd,
O'er all the dreary coasts !

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

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

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

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


By the youths that dy'd for love,

Wand'ring in the myrtle grove ;
Restore, restore Eurydice to life :
Oh, take the husband, or return the wife !
He sung, and Hell consented

To hear the poet's pray'r;
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair.

Thus song could prevail

O'er death and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious !

Though Fate had fast bound her,

With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies !
How wilt thou now the Fatal Sisters inove ?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love,

Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,

All alone,
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;

And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost!
Now with Furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,

He trembles, he glows; 'n

Amidst Rhodope's snowsi. See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hämus resounds with the Bacchanals'criesen

Ah see, he dies! Yet ev’n in death Eurydice he sung; Eurydice still trembled on his tongue ;

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung,

VII. .
Music the fiercest grief can charm;
And Fate's severest rage disarm :
Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above,
This the divine Cecilia found;
And to her Maker's praise confind the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th’ immortal pow’rs incline their ear ; Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, While solemn airs improve the sacred fire

And angels lean from heav'n to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv’n : His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,

Her's lifts the soul to heav'n,


« ПредишнаНапред »