MISCELLANIES. A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY AT OXFORD. CECILIA? whose exalted hymns With joy and wonder fill the blest, In choirs of warbling seraphims Known and distinguish'd from the rest, Thy vocal sons of Harmony; Attend, harmonious Saint! and hear our pray'rs ; Enliven all our earthly airs, And as thou sing'st thy God, teach us to sing of thee: Tune every string and every tongue; Be thou the Muse and subject of our song. Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim, Employ the echo in her name. Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise, Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace; The sound and triumph of our song. For ever consecrate the day To music and Ceciliâ ; Music! the greatest good that mortals know, Music can noble hints impart, Engender fury, kindle love, With unsuspected eloquence can move, The wolf and lamb around him trip, The moving woods attended as he play'd, Music religious heats inspires; It wakes the soul and lifts it high, The' Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue, And seems well pleas'd, and courted with a song. Soft moving sounds and heavenly airs Give force to every word, and recommend our When time itself shall be no more, And all things in confusion hurl'd, And sound survive the ruins of the world; Then saints and angels shall agree In one eternal jubilee; [pray❜rs. All Heav'n shall echo with their hymns divine, And God himself with pleasure see The whole creation in a chorus join. CHORUS. Consecrate the place and day Let no rough winds approach, nor dare Nor rudely shake the tuneful air, Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard, PROLOGUE. TO PHÆDRA AND HIPPOLITUS. 1707. LONG has a race of heroes fill'd the stage, While lull'd by sound, and undisturb'd by wit, And from the dull fatigue of thinking free, Our homespun authors must forsake the field, Had Valentini, musically coy, Shun'd Phædra's arms, and scorn'd the proffer'd joy, But he, a stranger to your modish way, PROLOGUE, TO THE TENDER HUSBAND. 1705. In the first rise and infancy of farce, When fools were many, and when plays were scarce, But now our British theatre can boast [beaux; Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and And punks of different characters we meet As frequent on the stage as in the pit. Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull, And here and there by chance glean up a fool. Long ere they find the necessary spark, They search the Town, and beat about the Park, Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court, And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's. And that there may be something gay and new, The first a damsel travell'd in romance, The other more refin'd, she comes from France; Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger, And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger. |