Pleas'd to obey, the beauteous monster flies, And on his scales as the gilt sun-beams play, Ten thousand variegated dies

In copious streams of lustre rise,

Rise o'er the level main, and signify his way.-
And now the joyous Bard, in triumph bore,

Rides the voluminous wave, and makes the wish'd-for shore.

Come, ye festive, social throng,

Who sweep the lyre, or pour the song,

Your noblest melody employ,

Such as becomes the mouth of joy ;

Bring the sky-aspiring thought,

With bright expression richly wrought;

And hail the Muse ascending on her throne,

'The main at length subdu’d, and all the world her own.

VI.

But o'er th' affections too she claims the sway, Pierces the human heart, and steals the soul away;

And as attractive sounds move high or low,

Th' obedient ductile passions ebb and flow.
Has any nymph her faithful lover lost,
And in the visions of the night,
And all the day-dreams of the light,
In Sorrow's tempest turbulently tost-

From her cheeks the roses die,

The radiations vanish from her sun-bright eye,

And her breast, the throne of love,

Can hardly, hardly, hardly move,

To send th' ambrosial sigh.

But let the skilful bard appear,

And pour the sounds medicinal in her ear:
Sing some sad, some plaintive ditty,

Steept in tears that endless flow,

Melancholy notes of pity,

Notes that mean a world of woe;

She too shall sympathize, she too shall moan,
And, pitying others sorows, sigh away her own.

VII.

Wake, wake the kettle-drum, prolong
The swelling trumpet's silver song,
And let the kindred accents pass
Thro' the horn's meandering brass.
Arise-The patriot Muse invites to war,
And mounts Bellona's brazen car;
While Harmony, terrific maid!
Appears in martial pomp array'd:

The sword, the target, and the lance

She wields, and as she moves, exalts the Pyrrhic dance. Trembles the earth, resound the skies

Swift o'er the fleet, the camp she flies,

With thunder in her voice, and lightning in her eyes.
The gallant warriors engage
With inextinguishable rage,

And hearts unchill'd with fear :
Fame numbers all the chosen bands,
Full in the front fair Victory stands,

And triumph crowns the rear.

VIII.

But hark the temple's hollow'd roof resounds,
And Purcell lives along the solemn sounds.-
Mellifluous, yet manly too,

He pours his strains along,
As from the lion Sampson slew,
Comes sweetness from the strong.
Not like the soft Italian swains,
He trills the weak enervate strains,
Where Sense and Music are at strife;
His vigorous notes with meaning teem,
With fire, with force explain the theme,
And sing the subject into life.

Attend he sings Cecilia-matchless dame!
'Tis she-tis she-fond to extend her fame,
On the loud chords the notes conspire to stay,
And sweetly swell into a long delay,

And dwell delighted on her name.
Blow on, ye sacred organs, blow,
In tones magnificently slow;
Such is the music, such the lays
Which suit your inventress's praise:
While round religious silence reigns,
And loitering winds expect the strains.
Hail majestic mournful measure,
Source of many a pensive pleasure!
Blest pledge of love to mortals given,
As pattern of the rest of heaven!
And thou, chief honor of the veil,
Hail, harmonious virgin, hail!

When Death shall blot out every name,
And Time shall break the trump of Fame,
Angels may listen to thy lute:

Thy power shall last, thy bays shall bloom,
When tongues shall cease, and worlds consume,
And all the tuneful spheres be mute.

ODE X.

ON

ST. CECILIA's DAY.

Adapted to the ancient British Music, viz.

THE SALT-BOX, THE JEW's HARP, THE MARROW BONES AND
CLEAVERS, THE HUM-STRUM OR HURDY-GURDY, &c.

As it was performed on June 10, 1763, at Ranelagh.

BY BONNEL THORNTON, ESQ.

Cedite, Tibicines Itali, vos cedite, Galli;
Dico iterum vobis, cedite, Tibicines.
Cedite, Tibicines, vobis ter dico; quaterque
Jam vobis dico, cedite, Tibicines.

TRANSLATION OF THE MOTTO.

Yield, yield, ye fidlers, French, Italians;
Yield, yield, I say again-Rascallions.
One, two, three times I say, fidlers give o'er;
Yield ye, I now say times 1, 2, 3, 4.

PART I.

ALEX. HEINS.

RECITATIVE,

Accompanied.

BE dumb, ye inharmonious sounds,

And music, that the astonish'd ear with discord wounds:

No more let common rhymes prophane the day.