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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 musick 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 musick, 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 giv'n,
As pattern of the rest of heav'n!
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 pow'r shall last, thy bays shall bloom,
When tongues shall cease, and worlds consume,
And all the tuneful spheres be mute.

GRAND CHORUS.

When Death shall blot out every name, &c.