| I |
| From harmony, from heavenly harmony, |
| This
universal frame began: |
| When nature underneath a
heap |
| Of
jarring atoms lay, |
| 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, |
| In order to their stations leap, |
| And
Music’s power obey. |
| From harmony, from heavenly harmony, |
| This
universal frame began; |
| From
harmony to harmony |
| Through all the compass of the notes it
ran, |
The diapason closing full in man.
|
| II |
| 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?
|
| III |
| The
trumpet’s loud clangour |
|
Excites us to arms, |
| With
shrill notes of anger |
|
And mortal alarms. |
| The double double double
beat |
|
Of the thundering drum, |
| Cries ‘hark! The foes
come: |
Charge, charge! ’tis too late to
retreat.’
|
| IV |
| The soft complaining flute, |
| In dying notes discovers |
| The woes of hopeless lovers; |
Whose dirge is whispered by the
warbling lute.
|
| V |
| Sharp violins proclaim |
| Their jealous pangs, and desperation, |
| Fury, frantic indignation, |
| Depth of pains, and height of passion, |
For the fair, disdainful dame.
|
| VI |
| 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.
|
| VII |
| Orpheus could lead the savage race; |
| And trees unrooted left their place, |
| Sequacious of the lyre: |
| But bright Cecilia raised the wonder
higher; |
| When to her organ vocal breath was
given, |
| An angel heard, and straight appeared, |
Mistaking earth for heaven.
|
|
GRAND CHORUS |
| As from the power of sacred
lays |
| The
spheres began to move, |
| And sung the great creator’s
praise |
| To
all the blessed 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.
|
| John Dryden
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 ] [ from Absalom and Achitophel ] [ London After the Great Fire, 1666 ] [ To the Memory of Mr Oldham ] [ Macflecknoe ] |
