For lo! dissolv'd by Music's melting power,
Celestial Sorrow rolls her plenteous shower;

O'er his wan cheek the colours rise,
And beams of comfort brighten in his eyes.
Happy king, thy woes are o'er!

Thy God shall wound thy soul no more:
The pitying Father of mankind

Meets the pure-returning mind.

No more shall black Despair afflict his soul:
Each gentler sound, ye shepherds, now combine:
Sweetly let the numbers roll:

Sooth him into hope divine.

Now lowly let the rustic measure glide,

To quell the dark remains of self-consuming Pride;
Till Nature's home-sprung blessings he confess,
And own that calm content is happiness.—
Ye woods and lakes, ye cliffs and mountains!
Haunted grots, and living fountains!

Listen to your shepherd's lay,

Whose artless carols close the day.
Bounding kids around him throng;
The steep rock echoes back his song:
While all unseen to mortal eye,
Sliding down the evening sky,
Holy Peace, tho' born above,
Daughter of Innocence and Love,
Quits her throne and mansion bright,
Her crown of stars, and robe of light,
Serene, in gentle smiles array'd,

To dwell beneath his palm-tree shade.
Hail, meek Angel! awful guest!
Still pour thy radiance o'er my breast!
Pride and Hate in courts may shine:

The shepherd's calm and blameless tent is thine!—

Softly, softly breathe your numbers;

And wrap his weary'd soul in slumbers!

Gentle Sleep, becalm his breast,

And close his eyes in healing rest!
Descend, celestial visions, ye who wait,

God's ministring powers, at Heaven's eternal gate!
Ye, who nightly vigils keep,
And rule the silent realms of Sleep,
Exalt the just to joys refin'd,

And plunge in woe the guilty mind;
Descend!-Oh, waft him to the skies,
And open all Heaven's glories to his eyes!
Beyond yon starry roof, by seraphs trod,

Where Light's unclouded fountains blaze;
Where choirs immortal hymn their God,
Intranc'd in ecstacy of ceaseless praise.
Angels, heal his anguish !

Your harps and voices join!
His grief to bliss shall languish,

When sooth'd by sounds divine.

Behold, with dawning joy each feature glows!
See, the blissful tear o'erflows!-

The fiend is fled!-Let Music's rapture rise:
Now Harmony, thy every nerve employ :
Shake the dome, and pierce the skies:
Wake him, wake him into joy.-

What power can every Passion's throne controul?
What power can boast the charm divine,
To still the tempest of the soul?

Celestial Harmony, that mighty charm is thine!
She, heavenly-born, came down to visit earth,
When from God's eternal throne

The beam of all-creative Wisdom shone,
And spake fair Order into birth.
At Wisdom's call she rob'd yon glittering skies,
Attun'd the spheres, and taught consenting orbs to rise.
Angels rapt in wonder stood,

And saw that all was fair, and all was good.
'Twas then, ye sons of God, in bright array
Ye shouted o'er creation's day:

Then kindling into joy,

The morning stars together sung:

And thro' the vast ethereal sky

Seraphic hymns and loud hosannahs rung.

Vol. XVII.

ODE XIV.

IN

PRAISE OF MUSIC.

COMPOSED BY MR. CHARLES KING,

FOR THE DEGREE OF BACHELOR OF MUSIC;

Performed at the Theatre in Oxford, on Friday, July 11, 1707.

PROBABLY WRITTEN

BY EDMUND SMITH, M. A.

MUSIC, soft charm of Heaven and Earth,
Whence didst thou borrow thy auspicious birth?
Or art thou of eternal date?

Sire to thyself, thyself as old as Fate,

Ere the rude ponderous mass

Of earth and waters from their chaos sprang
The morning stars their anthems sang,
And nought in Heaven was heard but melody and love.

Myriads of spirits, forms divine,
The Seraphim, with the bright host

Of Angels, Thrones, and Heavenly Powers,
Worship before th' Eternal Shrine;

Their happy privilege in hymns and anthems boast, In love and wonder pass their blissful hours.

Nor let the lower world repine,

The massy orb in which we sluggards move,
As if sequester'd from the arts divine:

Here's Music too,

As ours a rival were to th' world above.

CHORUS, FIVE VOICES.

Hark how the feather'd choir their matins chant,
And purling streams soft accents vent,
And all both time and measure know.
Ever since the Theban bard, to prove
The wondrous magic of his art,
Taught trees and forests how to move,
All Nature has a general concert held,

Each creature strives to bear a part;

And all but Death and Hell to conquering Muse yield.

But stay, I hear, methinks, a motley crew,

A peevish, odd, eccentric race

The glory of the art debase;

Perhaps because the sacred emblem 'tis
Of Truth, of Peace, and Order too;
So dangerous 'tis to be perversely wise.
But be they ever in the wrong,

Who say the Prophet s harpe'er spoil'd the Poet's song!