The tuneful voice was heard from high Then coia, and hot, and moist, and dry And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 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 Cries "Hark! the foes come; 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, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach Notes that wing their heavenly ways But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : Grand Chorus: As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour J. DRYDEN. 64. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT. Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old Forget not: In Thy book record their groans Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, J. MILTON. 65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND. The forward youth that would appear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease But through adventurous war And like the three-fork'd lightning first, For 'tis all one to courage high And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose; Then burning through the air he went Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservéd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot) Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, Though Justice against Fate complain, Nature, that hateth emptiness, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art, Where, twining subtle fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the Royal actor borne He nothing common did or mean But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try; Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, But bow'd his comely head -This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcéd power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line, A Bleeding Head, where they begun, And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. |