Confusion heard thy voice, and fled,
And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanquish'd head.
Then didst thou, Harmony, give birth
To this fair form of heaven and earth:
Then all those shining worlds above,
In mystic dance began to move
Around the radiant sphere of central fire,
A never ceasing, never-silent choir.
Thou only, goddess, first could'st tell
The mighty charms in numbers found;
And didst to heavenly minds reveal
The secret force of tuneful sound.
When first Cyllenius form'd the lyre,
Thou didst the god inspire;
When first the vocal shell he strung,
To which the muses sung;
Then first the muses sung; melodious strains
Apollo play'd,
And music first began by thy auspicious aid,
Hark, hark! again Urania sings!
Again Apollo strikes the trembling strings!
And see, the listening deities around
Attend insatiate, and devour the sound.
Descend, Urania, heavenly fair!
To the relief of this afflicted world repair;
See, how, with various woes oppress'd,
The wretched race of men is worn;
Consum'd with cares, with doubts distress'd,
Or by conflicting passions torn.
Reason in vain employs her aid,
The furious will on fancy waits;
While reason still by hopes or fears betray'd,
Too late advances or too soon retreats,
Music alone with sudden charms can bind
The wandering sense, and calm the troubled mind.
Begin the powerful song, ye sacred nine!
Your instruments and voices join;
Harmony, peace, and sweet desire,
In every breast inspire.
Revive the melancholy drooping heart,
And soft repose to restless thoughts impart.
Appease the wrathful mind,
To dire revenge, and death inclin'd:
With balmy sounds his boiling blood assuage,
And melt to mild remorse his burning rage.
'Tis done; and now tumultuous passions cease;
And all is hush'd, and all is peace.
The weary world with welcome ease is bless'd,
By music lull'd to pleasing rest.
Ah, sweet repose, too soon expiring!
Ah, foolish man, new toils requiring!
Curs'd ambition, strife pursuing,
Wakes the world to war and ruin.
See, see, the battle is prepar'd!
Behold the hero comes!
Loud trumpets with shrill fifes are heard;
And hoarse resounding drums.
War, with discordant notes and jarring noise,
The harmony of peace destroys.
See the forsaken fair, with streaming eyes,
Her parting lover mourn;
She weeps, she sighs, despairs, and dies,
And watchful wastes the lonely livelong nights,
Bewailing past delights
That may no more, no never more return.
With softest, sweetest airs,
Till victory and peace restore
Her faithful lover to her tender breast,
Within her folding arms to rest,
Thence never to be parted more,
No never to be parted more.
Enough, Urania, heavenly fair!
Now to thy native skies repair,
And rule again the starry sphere;
Cecilia comes, with holy rapture fill'd,
To ease the world of care,
Cecilia, more than all the muses skill'd!
Phœbus himself to her must yield,
And at her feet lay down
His golden harp and laurel crown.
The soft enervate lyre is drown'd
In the deep organ's more majestic sound:
In peals the swelling notes ascend the skies,
Perpetual breath the swelling notes supplies,
And lasting as her name,
Who form'd the tuneful frame,
The' immortal music never dies.
ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS.
As when of old heroic story tells,
Of knights imprison'd long by magic spells, Till future time the destin'd hero send,
By whom the dire enchantment is to end:
Such seems this work, and so reserv'd for thee,
Thou great revealer of dark poësy!
Those sullen clouds, which have for ages past O'er Persius' too long suffering muse been cast, Disperse and fly before thy sacred pen;
And, in their room, bright tracks of light are seen.
Sure Phœbus' self thy swelling breast inspires,
The god of Music, and poetic fires:
Else, whence proceeds this great surprise of light!
How dawns this day, forth from the womb of night!
Our wonder now, does our past folly show,
Vainly contending what we did not know;
So unbelievers impiously despise
The sacred oracles in mysteries.
Persius before in small esteem was had,
Unless what to antiquity is paid;
But like Apocrypha, with scruple read,
(So far our ignorance our faith misled);
Till you, Apollo's darling priest, thought fit
To place it in the poet's sacred writ.
As coin, which bears some awful monarch's face,
For more than its intrinsic worth will pass;
So your bright image, which we here behold,
Adds worth to worth, and dignifies the gold;
To you we all this following treasure owe,
This hippocrene, which from a rock did flow.
Old stoic virtue, clad in rugged lines,
Polish'd by you, in modern brilliant shines;
And as before, for Persius, our esteem
To his antiquity was paid, not him :
So now, whatever praise from us is due,
Belongs not to old Persius, but the new,
For still obscure, to us no light he gives;
Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.
So stubborn flints their inward heat conceal,
Till art and force the' unwilling sparks reveal;
But through your skill, from those small seeds of fire Bright flames arise, which never can expire.
FAIR Amoret is gone astray;
Pursue and seek her every lover:
I'll tell the signs by which you may
The wandering shepherdess discover.
Coquet and coy at once her air,
Both studied, though both seem neglected; Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart every glance,
Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them;
For she'd persuade they wound by chance,
Though certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hates,
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
AN EPISTLE TO SIR RICHARD TEMPLE.
"Tis strange, dear Temple, how it comes to pass, That no one man is pleas'd with what he has.
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