CANTATA VI. THE RELIGIOUS. RECITATIVE. HERE, tyrant Superstition, ugly fiend, Harpy with an angel's face, Monster in Religion's dress, Thy impious pray'rs and bloody visions end. Hence, with thy sister Persecution, go- Of martyrs' groans, and virgins' screams, And every threaten'd tool of hoodwink'd zeal, Ingenious Rome can find, or tortur'd Nature feel. AIR. From Britain's happier clime repair To empty halls, To midnight bells, To cloister'd walls, To gloomy cells, Where moping Melancholy dwells Vol. XVIII. I WILLIAM's name shall reach you there, And sink your souls with black despair. RECITATIVE. The Hero comes, and with him brings AIR. Britons, join the godlike train, And to her lyre attune your joy: To praise the heav'nly-favor'd Boy. ODE XVIII. FOR MUSIC. ON OPENING THE NEW REGENT HOUSE AT THE PUBLIC COMMENCEMENT AT CAMBRIDGE. BY JOHN TAYLOR, L.L.D. 1730. GODDESS of the Brave and Wise, And all the tuneful throng That wake the vocal chord, and shape the flying song! The fate of Empires guard : A while let Arts, thy other care, Then swell the verse, and let it be Let widow'd Empires speak thy sterner sway, The column faithless to its charge, And bitter waste that marks the Conqueror's way: But be thy softer, better praise, Be thine, and Music's toil to raise, MUSIC! the Founder Art, MUSIC! the soul of Verse, and friend of Peace. Who pois'd the well-tun'd spheres, And jarring atoms, Cold and Heat, 'Twas Harmony, 'twas Builder Harmony: 'Twas Harmony compos'd this concert frame, 'Twas Harmony which upwards flung the active flame, Prescrib'd the air in middle space to flow, And bade the wave and grosser earth subside below. Then all yon tuneful restless Choir Began their radiant journeys to advance, And with unerring symphony to roll the central dance. CHORUS. Whilst we the measur'd song Builder Harmony, to thee, decree, Tune every chord, and every note inspire. But hark! Amphion shakes the yielding strings, And animated rocks around him throng, The Marble from his veiny cavern springs, And, all obsequious to the potent spell, Hears the commanding strings, and listens to the song. 'Twas, Cadmus, thine the elder fate, To mould the infant growing state; To make thy labors by his own complete, Now by the sweetly-plaintive lute, That teach the measur'd dance to move: That shakes the Prophet's harp, and strings the Poet's lyre; By the trumpet's loud alarms, That rouse the nations up to arms: To whom the pious use is given To wing the silent glowing vow, And waft the raptur'd saint to Heaven: Be, Music, thy peculiar care |