 | A New Spring of Divine Poetrie |  |
A Meditation on Organs.
Harke how the Organist most sweetely plaiesHis Psalmes upon the tone-divided Kayes:
Each touch a sound, but if the hand don't come
And strike the kayes, how soon's the musicke dumbe?
A mod'rate stroke doth well, but if too hard
The Organ's broke, and all the raptures mard.
I am that Organ Lord, and thou alone
Canst play, each prayer is a pleasant tone,
Affliction is the hand that strikes the kayes:
(O Lord from me the sweetest musicke raise;)
If thou don't strike at all how can I speake
Thy worthy prayses, if too hard I breake:
Strike mildly Lord, strike soft, and then Ile sing,
And charoll out the glory of my King.
| A New Spring of Divine Poetrie | |