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النشر الإلكتروني

What passion cannot Music raise and quell!
When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.
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
Of the thundering drum
Cries, Hark! the foe's 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,
The sacred Organ's praise ?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the Lyre;
But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher,
When to her Organ vocal breath was giv'n;
An angel heard, and straight appear'd,
Mistaking earth for Heav'n.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the pow'r of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the bless'd above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

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ANONYMOUS.

THE IVY. How yonder ivy courts the oak,

And clips it with a false embrace ! So I abide a wanton's yoke,

And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I

guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

How fain the tree would swell its rind !

But, vainly trying, it decays.
So fares it with my shackled mind,

So wastes the vigour of my days.
And soon our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.
A lass, forlorn for lack of grace,

My kindly pity first did move; And, in a little moment's space,

This pity did engender love. And now my death must prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. For now she rules me with her look,

And round me winds her harlot chain; Whilst, by a strange enchantment struck,

My nobler will recoils in vain. And soon my death will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. But, had the oak denied its shade,

The weed had trail'd in dust below; And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

Might still have pin'd in want and woe : Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness

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Published by W. SUTTABY, CROSBY and Co. and SCATCHERD and LETTERMAN,

Stationers Court.

1809.

Corrall, Printer, Charing Cross.

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