For lo! dissolv'd by Music's melting power, O'er his wan cheek the colours rise, Thy God shall wound thy soul no more: Meets the pure-returning mind. No more shall black Despair afflict his soul: Sooth him into hope divine. Now lowly let the rustic measure glide, To quell the dark remains of self-consuming Pride; Listen to your shepherd's lay, Whose artless carols close the day. To dwell beneath his palm-tree shade. 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! God's ministring powers, at Heaven's eternal gate! And plunge in woe the guilty mind; Where Light's unclouded fountains blaze; Your harps and voices join! When sooth'd by sounds divine. Behold, with dawning joy each feature glows! The fiend is fled!-Let Music's rapture rise: What power can every Passion's throne controul? Celestial Harmony, that mighty charm is thine! The beam of all-creative Wisdom shone, And saw that all was fair, and all was good. 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, Sire to thyself, thyself as old as Fate, Ere the rude ponderous mass Of earth and waters from their chaos sprang Myriads of spirits, forms divine, Of Angels, Thrones, and Heavenly Powers, 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, 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, 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 Who say the Prophet s harpe'er spoil'd the Poet's song! |