ODE
ON
ST.
CECILIA's
DAY
.
BY
THE
SAME
.
I.
FROM
your
lyre-enchanted
towers
,
Ye
musically
mystic
Powers
,
Ye
,
that
inform
the
tuneful
spheres
,
Inaudible
to
mortal
ears
,
While
each
orb
in
ether
swims
Accordant
to
th'
inspiring
hymns
;
Hither
Paradise
remove
,
Spirits
of
Harmony
and
Love
!
Thou
too
,
divine
Urania
,
deign
to
appear
,
And
with
thy
sweetly-solemn
lute
To
the
grand
argument
the
numbers
suit
;
Such
as
sublime
and
clear
,
Replete
with
heavenly
love
,
Charm
th'
inraptur'd
souls
above
.
Disdainful
of
fantastic
play
,
Mix
on
your
ambrosial
tongue
Weight
of
sense
with
sound
of
song
,
And
be
angelically
gay
.
II
.
And
you
,
ye
sons
of
Harmony
below
,
How
little
less
than
angels
,
when
ye
sing
!
With
Emulation's
kindling
warmth
shall
glow
,
And
from
your
mellow-modulating
throats
The
tribute
of
your
grateful
notes
In
union
of
piety
shall
bring
.
Shall
Echo
from
her
vocal
cave
Repay
each
note
the
shepherd
gave
,
And
shall
not
we
our
mistress
praise
,
And
give
her
back
the
borrow'd
lays
?
But
farther
still
our
praises
we
pursue
;
For
ev'n
Cecilia
,
mighty
maid
,
Confess'd
she
had
superior
aid
—
She
did
—
and
other
rites
to
greater
Powers
are
due
:
Higher
swell
the
sound
and
higher
:
Let
the
winged
numbers
climb
:
To
the
heaven
of
heavens
aspire
,
Solemn
,
sacred
,
and
sublime
:
From
heaven
Music
took
its
rise
,
Return
it
to
its
native
skies
.
III
.
Music's
a
celestial
art
;
Cease
to
wonder
at
its
power
,
Tho'
lifeless
rocks
to
motion
start
,
Tho'
trees
dance
lightly
from
the
bower
,
Tho'
rolling
floods
in
sweet
suspence
Are
held
,
and
listen
into
sense
,
In
Penshurst's
plains
,
when
Waller
,
sick
with
love
,
Has
found
some
silent
,
solitary
grove
,
Where
the
vague
moon-beams
pour
a
silver
flood
Of
tremulous
light
athwart
th'
unshaven
wood
,
Within
an
hoary
moss-grown
cell
,
He
lays
his
careless
limbs
without
reserve
,
And
strikes
,
impetuous
strikes
each
querulous
nerve
Of
his
resounding
shell
.
In
all
the
woods
,
in
all
the
plains
,
Around
a
lively
stillness
reigns
;
The
deer
approach
the
secret
scene
,
And
weave
their
way
thro'
labyrinths
green
;
While
Philomela
learns
the
lay
,
And
answers
from
the
neighbouring
bay
.
But
Medway
,
melancholy
mute
,
Gently
on
his
urn
reclines
,
And
all-attentive
to
the
lute
,
In
uncomplaining
anguish
pines
:
The
crystal
waters
weep
away
,
And
bear
the
tidings
to
the
sea
:
Neptune
in
the
boisterous
seas
Spreads
the
placid
bed
of
peace
,
While
each
blast
,
Or
breathes
its
last
,
Or
just
does
sigh
a
symphony
and
cease
.
IV
.
Behold
Arion
—
on
the
stern
he
stands
,
Pall'd
in
theatrical
attire
,
To
the
mute
strings
he
moves
th'
enlivening
hands
,
Great
in
distress
,
and
wakes
the
golden
lyre
:
While
in
a
tender
Orthian
strain
He
thus
accosts
the
mistress
of
the
main
:
By
the
bright
beams
of
Cynthia's
eyes
,
Thro'
which
your
waves
attracted
rise
,
And
actuate
the
hoary
deep
;
By
the
secret
coral
cell
,
Where
Love
,
and
Joy
,
and
Neptune
dwell
,
And
peaceful
floods
in
silence
sleep
;
By
the
sea-flowers
,
that
immerge
Their
heads
around
the
grotto's
verge
,
Dependent
from
the
stooping
stem
;
By
each
roof-suspended
drop
,
That
lightly
lingers
on
the
top
,
And
hesitates
into
a
gem
;
By
thy
kindred
watery
gods
,
The
lakes
,
the
rivulets
,
founts
and
floods
,
And
all
the
Powers
that
live
unseen
Underneath
the
liquid
green
;
Great
Amphitrite
(
for
thou
canst
bind
The
storm
,
and
regulate
the
wind
)
Hence
waft
me
,
fair
Goddess
,
oh
waft
me
away
,
Secure
from
the
men
,
and
the
monsters
of
prey
!
V.
He
sung
—
The
winds
are
charm'd
to
sleep
,
Soft
stillness
steals
along
the
deep
,
The
Tritons
and
the
Nereids
sigh
In
soul-reflecting
sympathy
,
And
all
the
audience
of
waters
weep
.
But
Amphitrite
her
dolphin
sends
—
the
same
,
Which
erst
to
Neptune
brought
the
nobly
perjur'd
dame
.
—
Pleas'd
to
obey
,
the
beauteous
monster
flies
,
And
on
his
scales
as
the
gilt
sun-beams
play
,
Ten
thousand
variegated
dies
In
copious
streams
of
lustre
rise
,
Rise
o'er
the
level
main
,
and
signify
his
way
.
—
And
now
the
joyous
Bard
,
in
triumph
bore
,
Rides
the
voluminous
wave
,
and
makes
the
wish'd-for
shore
.
Come
,
ye
festive
,
social
throng
,
Who
sweep
the
lyre
,
or
pour
the
song
,
Your
noblest
melody
employ
,
Such
as
becomes
the
mouth
of
Joy
;
Bring
the
sky-aspiring
thought
,
With
bright
expression
richly
wrought
;
And
hail
the
Muse
ascending
on
her
throne
,
The
main
at
length
subdu'd
,
and
all
the
world
her
own
.
VI
.
But
o'er
th'
affections
too
she
claims
the
sway
,
Pierces
the
human
heart
,
and
steals
the
soul
away
;
And
as
attractive
sounds
move
high
or
low
,
Th'
obedient
ductile
passions
ebb
and
flow
.
Has
any
nymph
her
faithful
lover
lost
,
And
in
the
visions
of
the
night
,
And
all
the
day-dreams
of
the
light
,
In
Sorrow's
tempest
turbulently
tost
—
From
her
cheeks
the
roses
die
,
The
radiations
vanish
from
her
sun-bright
eye
,
And
her
breast
,
the
throne
of
love
,
Can
hardly
,
hardly
,
hardly
move
,
To
send
th'
ambrosial
sigh
.
But
let
the
skilful
Bard
appear
,
And
pour
the
sounds
medicinal
in
her
ear
:
Sing
some
sad
,
some
plaintive
ditty
,
Steept
in
tears
that
endless
flow
,
Melancholy
notes
of
pity
,
Notes
that
mean
a
worldof
woe
;
She
too
shall
sympathize
,
she
too
shall
moan
,
And
pitying
others
sorrows
sigh
away
her
own
.
VII
.
Wake
,
wake
the
kettle-drum
,
prolong
The
swelling
trumpet's
silver
song
,
And
let
the
kindred
accents
pass
Thro'
the
horn's
meandering
brass
.
Arise
—
The
patriot
Muse
invites
to
war
,
And
mounts
Bellona's
brazen
car
;
While
Harmony
,
terrific
maid
!
Appears
in
martial
pomp
array'd
:
The
sword
,
the
target
,
and
the
lance
She
wields
,
and
as
she
moves
,
exalts
the
Pyrrhic
dance
.
Trembles
the
earth
,
resound
the
skies
—
Swift
o'er
the
fleet
,
the
camp
she
flies
With
thunder
in
her
voice
,
and
lightning
in
her
eyes
.
The
gallant
warriors
engage
With
inextinguishable
rage
,
And
hearts
unchill'd
with
fear
;
Fame
numbers
all
the
chosen
bands
,
Full
in
the
front
fair
Victory
stands
,
And
Triumph
crowns
the
rear
.
VIII
.
But
hark
the
temple's
hollow'd
roof
resounds
,
And
Purcell
lives
along
the
solemn
sounds
.
—
Mellifluous
,
yet
manly
too
,
He
pours
his
strains
along
,
As
from
the
lion
Sampson
slew
,
Comes
sweetness
from
the
strong
.
Not
like
the
soft
Italian
swains
,
He
trills
the
weak
enervate
strains
,
Where
Sense
and
Music
are
at
strife
;
His
vigorous
notes
with
meaning
teem
,
With
fire
,
with
force
explain
the
theme
,
And
sing
the
subject
into
life
.
Attend
—
he
sings
Cecilia
—
matchless
dame
!
'Tis
she
—
'tis
she
,
—
fond
to
extend
her
fame
,
On
the
loud
chords
the
notes
conspire
to
stay
,
And
sweetly
swell
into
a
long
delay
,
And
dwell
delighted
on
her
name
.
Blow
on
,
ye
sacred
organs
,
blow
,
In
tones
magnificently
slow
;
Such
is
the
music
,
such
the
lays
Which
suit
your
fair
inventress'
praise
:
While
round
religious
silence
reigns
,
And
loitering
winds
expect
the
strains
.
Hail
majestic
mournful
measure
,
Source
of
many
a
pensive
pleasure
!
Blest
pledge
of
love
to
mortals
given
,
As
pattern
of
the
rest
of
heaven
!
And
thou
,
chief
honor
of
the
veil
,
Hail
,
harmonious
virgin
,
hail
!
When
Death
shall
blot
out
every
name
,
And
Time
shall
break
the
trump
of
Fame
,
Angels
may
listen
to
thy
lute
:
Thy
power
shall
last
,
thy
bays
shall
bloom
,
When
tongues
shall
cease
,
and
worlds
consume
,
And
all
the
tuneful
spheres
be
mute
.