ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string
And sweep the sounding lyre!

In a sadly pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain;
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound;

While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,

The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder and yet louder rise

And fill with spreading sounds the skies: Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats: Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away

In a dying, dying fall.

By Music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft assuasive voice applies:
Or when the soul is press'd with cares,
Exalts her in enliv'ning airs.

Warriors she fires with animated sounds;

Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds: Melancholy lifts her head,

Morpheus rouses from his bed,

Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Listening Envy drops her snakes;

Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions bear away their rage.

But when our country's cause provokes to

arms,

How martial music every bosom warms!

So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas, High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,

While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main:
Transported demigods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflam'd with glory's charms:

Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, And half unsheathed the shining blade; And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, To arms, to arms, to arms!

But when through all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as death, the poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,

What sounds were heard,

What scenes appear'd,

O'er all the dreary coasts!

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 see! the tortured ghosts respire:
See, shady forms advance!

Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance:

Orpheus and Eurydice

From painting by Robt. Beyschlag