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The tuneful voice was heard from high
Arise, ye more than dead !
And Music's power obey.
This universal frame began :
From harmony to harmony
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
And mortal alarms.
Of the thundering drum
Cries “Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat !"
The soft complaining flute
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Sharp violins proclaim
For the fair disdainful dame.
But oh! what art can teach,
The sacred organ's praise ?
To mend the choirs above.
Sequacious of the lyre: But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : When to her Organ vocal breath was given An Angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking Earth for Heaven!
Grand Chorus :
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
To all the blest above ;
64. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.
Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S
RETURN FROM IRELAND.
The forward youth that would appear,
Nor in the shadows sing
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
Removing from the wall
So restless Cromwell could not cease
But through adventurous war
And like the three-fork'd lightning first, Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide :
And with such, to enclose
Then burning through the air he went
And Cæsar's head at last
'Tis madness to resist or blame
And if we would speak true,
Who, from his private gardens, where
(As if his highest plot
Could by industrious valour climb
And cast the Kingdoms old
Though Justice against Fate complain,
But those do hold or break
Nature, that hateth emptiness,
And therefore must make rooim
What field of all the civil war
And Hampton shows what part
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
That Charles himself might chase
That thence the Royal actor borne
While round the armed bands
He nothing common did or mean
But with his keener eye
Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right;
But bow'd his comely head
Down, as upon a bed. - This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcéd power :
So when they did design
A Bleeding Head, where they beguri,
And yet in that the State
And now the Irish are ashamed
So much one man can do