The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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ODE TO ST. CECILIA. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
326
ODE TO ST. CECILIA.
The Poet very loyally calls upon St. Cecila, the great Patroness of Music, by way of Justice of Peace, Constable, and Comforter, to come down from Heaven to the noble Directors, issue a Proclamation for dissolving Societies of Musical Instruments; taking them up, and knocking them to Pieces, as also the Heads of the Musicians against each other.—The Poet concludes with a Prophecy of returning Power to the Directors.
Divine Cecilia, pray, from Heav'n step down;
Most wondrous are the doings in this town!
Behold, behold a tuneful revolution!
Directors banished, but no execution!
Thank God, no grinning heads of lords, poor souls,
Amid the mob survey the streets on poles.
The fiddles screech with rapture one and all;
The flutes and hautboys whistle at the fall:
The pompous organ for rebellion ripe!
Glad of the long-wish'd overthrow, he opes,
To show the world his pleasure, all his stops,
And pours his thunders through each giant pipe!
Most wondrous are the doings in this town!
Behold, behold a tuneful revolution!
Directors banished, but no execution!
Thank God, no grinning heads of lords, poor souls,
Amid the mob survey the streets on poles.
The fiddles screech with rapture one and all;
The flutes and hautboys whistle at the fall:
The pompous organ for rebellion ripe!
Glad of the long-wish'd overthrow, he opes,
To show the world his pleasure, all his stops,
And pours his thunders through each giant pipe!
Whilst all his pigmies, trilling, squeaking, squalling,
Like mad things, every one his tune, are bawling,
The hoarse bassoons their nasal twang employ—
And hog-like bases grunt the song of joy.
Like mad things, every one his tune, are bawling,
The hoarse bassoons their nasal twang employ—
And hog-like bases grunt the song of joy.
327
Wild screams the trumpet's brazen notes so clear;
And on th' occasion, scorning to be mum,
Like cannon soundeth on the loaded ear,
At solemn intervals, the double drum.
And on th' occasion, scorning to be mum,
Like cannon soundeth on the loaded ear,
At solemn intervals, the double drum.
The various instruments of wind and string,
Thus to the world in saucy triumph sing—
‘What are those Lord-directors?—arrant fools,
Mean mongrels—never bred in Music's schools—
With just as much of science as a pig;
Who scarcely know a psalm-tune from a jig.
Are these the men to lead us?—Music swears,
And to the pill'ry recommends their ears.’
Thus to the world in saucy triumph sing—
‘What are those Lord-directors?—arrant fools,
Mean mongrels—never bred in Music's schools—
With just as much of science as a pig;
Who scarcely know a psalm-tune from a jig.
Are these the men to lead us?—Music swears,
And to the pill'ry recommends their ears.’
And lo, of Music the choice bands,
Delighted, clap their madding hands;
And, raising to the stars their eyes devout,
‘Thank Heav'n,’ they roar, ‘those fellows are turn'd out.
No longer shall their tyranny impose,
And lead the king of nations by the nose.’
Delighted, clap their madding hands;
And, raising to the stars their eyes devout,
‘Thank Heav'n,’ they roar, ‘those fellows are turn'd out.
No longer shall their tyranny impose,
And lead the king of nations by the nose.’
Then, sweet Cecilia, leave thy lofty station;
O haste and issue out thy proclamation—
Of wond'rous danger let it talk aloud—
Root up societies of flutes, bassoons;
Knock down the organ, for his rebel tunes,
The brazen trumpet break, and crack the crowd.
O haste and issue out thy proclamation—
Of wond'rous danger let it talk aloud—
Root up societies of flutes, bassoons;
Knock down the organ, for his rebel tunes,
The brazen trumpet break, and crack the crowd.
Lay on the necks of the rebellious band
Thy powerful and chastising hand—
And for their impudent and senseless pother
Sweet goddess, knock one head against another.
Thy powerful and chastising hand—
And for their impudent and senseless pother
Sweet goddess, knock one head against another.
O haste and keep the mournful lords in heart,
As scarce a single mortal takes their part.
Except the lofty family of pride,
Few are the comforters they boast beside—
As scarce a single mortal takes their part.
Except the lofty family of pride,
Few are the comforters they boast beside—
These are their constant friends indeed, and stout;
Friends that few nobles ever are without:
Hereditary friends of ancient date,
Accompanying great title and estate.
Friends that few nobles ever are without:
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Accompanying great title and estate.
And yet 'tis said no virtues can reside
Where dwells that lofty scowling spirit, pride;
That aconite, the noisome weed of gloom,
That near it suffers not a flow'r to bloom.
Where dwells that lofty scowling spirit, pride;
That aconite, the noisome weed of gloom,
That near it suffers not a flow'r to bloom.
Joy to my soul! of Leeds his glorious grace
Puts forth a simpering sweet prophetic face,
Amid this rough mischance, that seems to say,
‘Though disappointment mocks the present hour,
Next year shall mark the triumph of my pow'r,
When Faction's scowling fiends shall shun the day.’
Puts forth a simpering sweet prophetic face,
Amid this rough mischance, that seems to say,
‘Though disappointment mocks the present hour,
Next year shall mark the triumph of my pow'r,
When Faction's scowling fiends shall shun the day.’
Thus when the monarch of the winds, in spite,
Rolls a dark phalanx on the golden light,
And blots the beauteous orb the world adorning,
Sol lifts the sable mantle of a cloud,
And peeping underneath the envious shroud,
Smiles hope, and says, ‘I'll shine to-morrow morning.’
Rolls a dark phalanx on the golden light,
And blots the beauteous orb the world adorning,
Sol lifts the sable mantle of a cloud,
And peeping underneath the envious shroud,
Smiles hope, and says, ‘I'll shine to-morrow morning.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |