A SONG TO THE LUTE IN MUSICKE Where gripinge grefes the hart would wounde, In joy yt maks our mirthe abounde, The Gods by musicke have theire prayse; In seas, whom pyrats would destroy, O heavenly gyfte, that rules the mynd, O musicke, whom the Gods assinde To comforte manne, whom cares would nippe! Since thow both man and beste doest move, What beste ys he, wyll the disprove? Ascribed to Richard Edwards, 1596. SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY From harmony, from heavenly harmony And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Cries Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!" The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: Grand Chorus As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour John Dryden. |