ODE for MUSICK

O N

St. CECILIA's Day.

D

I.

Efcend ye nine! defcend and fing;

The breathing inftruments infpire,

Wake into voice each filent string,

And fweep the founding lyre!

In a fadly-pleafing strain

Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet found,
Till the roofs all around

The fhrill echos rebound:

While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,

The deep, majestic, folemn organs blow.

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Hark! the numbers, foft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rife,

And fill with fpreading founds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and fmall, The strains decay,

And melt away,

In a dying, dying fall.

II. ·

By mufic, minds an equal temper know,
Nor fwell too high, nor fink too low.
If in the breast tumultucus joys arise,
Mufic her foft, affuafive voice applies;

Or when the foul is prefs'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors fhe fires with animated founds;

Pours balm into the bleeding Lover's wounds:

Melancholy lifts her head;

Morpheus rowzes from his bed;

Sloath unfolds her arms and wakes, Lift'ning Envy drops her fnakes; Intestine war no more our Paffions wage, Ev'n giddy Factions hear away their rage.

III.

But when our Country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music ev'ry bofom warms!

So when the first bold veffel dar'd the feas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo faw her kindred trees

Defcend from Pelion to the main.

Tranfported demi-gods ftood round,

And men grew heroes at the found,
Enflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his fev'nfold fhield display'd,
And half unfheath'd the fhining blade;
And feas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms!

IV.

But when thro' all th' infernal bounds

Which flaming Phlegeton furrounds,

Sad

Sad Orpheus fought his confort loft;
Th' inexorable gates were barr'd,

And nought was feen, and nought was heard
Around the dreary coaft,

But dreadful gleams,

Dismal screams,

Fires that glow,

Shrieks of woe,

Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghosts.
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghosts refpire,
See fhady forms advance!
Thy stone, O Syfiphus, ftands still ;
Ixion refts upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance!

The furies fink upon their iron beds,

And fnakes uncurl'd hang lift'ning round their heads.

V.

By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er