 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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AN ODE ON THE Power of Musick.
Inscrib'd To Mr. Alexander Malcolm, Occasion'd by his Treatise of Musick.
I.
When Nature yet in Embrio lay,Ere Things began to Be,
The Almighty from eternal Day
Spoke loud his deep Decree:
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At which Creation sprung,
And all th' Angelick Hosts above
The Morning Anthem Sung.
II.
As Musick's sweet prevailing Call,Thro' boundless Realms of Space,
The Atoms danc'd, obsequious, all,
And, to compose this wond'rous Ball,
In order took their Place.
How did the Piles of Matter part,
And huddled Nature from her Slumber start?
When, from the Mass immensely steep,
The Voice bid Order sudden leap,
To usher in a World.
What Heav'nly Melody and Love
Began in ev'ry Sphere to move?
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Were all aside distinctly hurl'd,
And Chaos reign'd no more.
III.
Musick the mighty Parent was,Empower'd by God, the Sovereign Cause.
Musick first spirited the Lifeless Waste,
Sever'd the sullen, bulky Mass,
And active Motion call'd from lazy Rest.
Summon'd by Musick, Form uprear'd her Head,
From Depths, where Life it self lay dead;
While sudden Rays of ever-living Light
Broke from the Abyss of ancient Night,
Reveal'd the New-born Earth around, and its fair Influence spread.
God saw that all the Work was good;
The Work, the Effect of Harmony, its wond'rous Off-spring, stood.
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IV.
Musick, the best of Arts Divine,Maintains the Tune it first began,
And makes ev'n Opposites combine
To be of use to Man.
Discords with tuneful Concords move
Thro' all the Spacious Frame;
Below is breath'd the Sound of Love,
While Mystick Dances shine Above,
And Musick's Power to nether Worlds proclaim.
What various Globes in proper Spheres,
Perform their Great Creator's Will?
While never silent, never still,
Melodiously they run,
Unhurt by Chance, or Length of Years,
Around the Central Sun.
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V.
The little, perfect World, call'd Man,In whom the Diapason ends,
In his Contexture, shews a Plan
Of Harmony, that makes amends,
(By God-like Beauty, that adorns his Race,)
For all the Spots on Nature's Face.
He boasts a pure, a tuneful Soul,
That rivals the Celestial Throng,
And can ev'n Savage Beasts controul
With his enchanting Song.
Tho' diff'rent Passions struggle in his Mind,
Where Love and Hatred, Hope and Fear are join'd,
All, by a secret Guidance, tend
To one harmonious End.
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VI.
Its great Original to prove,And shew it bless'd us from above,
In creeping Winds, thro' Air it sweetly floats,
And works strange Miracles by Notes.
Our beating Pulses bear each bidden Part,
And ev'ry Passion of the master'd Heart
Is touch'd with Sympathy, and speaks the Wonders of the Art.
Now Love, in soft and whispering Strains,
Thrills gently thro' the Veins,
And binds the Soul in Silken Chains.
Then Rage and Fury fire the Blood,
And hurried Spirits, rising high, ferment the boiling Flood.
Silent, anon, we sink, resign'd in Grief:
But, e're our yielding Passions quite subside,
Some swelling Note calls back the ebbing Tide,
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With Sound we Love, we Joy, and we Despair,
The solid Substance hug, or grasp delusive Air.
VII.
In various Ways the Heart-strings shake,And different things they speak.
For, when the meaning Masters strike the Lyre,
Or Haut-boys briskly move,
Our Souls, like Lightning, blaze with quick Desire,
Or melt away in Love.
But when the Martial Trumpet, swelling high,
Rolls its shrill Clangor thro' the ecchoing Sky;
If, answering hoarse, the sullen Drum's big Beat
Does, in dead Notes, the lively Call repeat;
Bravely at once we break o'er Nature's Bounds,
Snatch at grim Death, and look, unmov'd, on Wounds.
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Softly, we mourn with the complaining Flute;
With the Violin laugh at our Foes;
By turns, with the Organ we bear on the Sky,
Whilst, exulting in Triumph, on Æther we fly,
Or, falling, groan upon the Harp, beneath a Load of Woes.
Each Instrument has magic Pow'r
To enliven or destroy,
To sink the Heart, and, in one Hour,
Entrance our Souls with Joy.
At ev'ry Touch, we lose our ravish'd Thoughts,
And Life, it self, in quivering Clings, hangs o'er the varied Notes.
VIII.
How does the starting Treble raiseThe Mind to rapt'rous Heights;
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And drowns us with Delights.
But, when the Manly, the Majestick Base
Appears with awful Grace,
What Solemn Thoughts are in the Mind infus'd?
And how the Spirits rouz'd?
In slow-pac'd Triumph, we are led around,
And all the Scene with haughty Pomp is crown'd;
Till Friendly Tenor gently flows,
Like sweet, meandring Streams,
And makes an Union, as it goes,
Betwixt the two Extreams.
The blended Parts in That agree,
As Waters mingle in the Sea,
And yield a Compound of delightful Melody.
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IX.
Strange is the Force of modulated Sound,That, like a Torrent, sweeps o'er ev'ry Mound!
It tunes the Heart, at ev'ry Turn;
With ev'ry Moment gives new Passions Birth;
Sometimes we take delight to Mourn;
Sometimes enchance our Mirth.
It sooths deep Sorrow in the Breast;
It lulls our waking Cares to Rest,
Fate's clouded Brow serenes with Ease,
And makes ev'n Madness please.
As much as Man can meaner Arts controul,
It manages his master'd Soul,
The most invet'rate Spleen disarms,
And, like Aurelia, Charms:
Aurelia! dear, distinguish'd Fair!
In whom the Graces center'd are!
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Attracts the gazing Eyes,
Thrills thro' the Soul, like sad Louisa's Lines,
And, as it certain Conquest makes, the Savage Soul refines.
X.
Musick religious Thoughts inspires,And kindles bright Poetick Fires;
Fires! such as great Hillarius raise
Triumphant, in their blaze!
Amid the vulgar-versifying Throng
His Genius, with Distinction, show,
And o'er our popular Metre lift his Song
High, as the Heav'ns are arch'd o'er Orbs below.
As if the Man was pure Intelligence,
Musick transports him o'er the heights of Sense,
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And makes Mortality Divine.
Tho' Reason's Bounds it ne'er defies,
Its Charms elude the Ken
Of heavy, gross-ear'd Men,
Like Mysteries conceal'd from vulgar Eyes.
Others may that Distraction call,
Which Musick raises in the Breast,—
To Me, 'tis Ecstacy and Triumph all,
The Foretastes of the Raptures of the Blest.
Who knows not this, when Handell plays,
And Senesino sings?
Our Souls learn Rapture from their Lays,
While rival'd Angels shew amaze,
And drop their Golden Wings.
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XI.
Still, God of Life, entrance my SoulWith such Enthusiastick Joys;
And, when grim Death, with dire Controul,
My Pleasures in this lower Orb destroys,
Grant this Request, whatever you deny,
For Love I bore to Melody,
That round my Bed, a sacred Choir
Of skilful Masters tune their Voice,
And, without Pain of agonizing Strife,
In Consort with the Lute conspire,
To untie the Bands of Life;
That, dying with the dying Sounds,
My Soul, well tun'd, may rise,
And break o'er all the common Bounds
Of Minds, that grovel here below the Skies.
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XII.
When living die, and dead Men live,And Order is again to Chaos hurl'd,
Thou, Melody, shalt survive
And triumph o'er the Ruins of the World.
A dreadful Trumpet never heard before,
By Angels never blown, till Then,
Thro' all the Regions of the Air shall roar
That Time is now no more:
But Lo! a diff'rent Scene!
Eternity appears,
Like Space unbounded, and untold by Years.
High in the Seat of Happiness Divine
Shall Saints and Angels in full Chorus join;
In various Ways,
Seraphick Lays
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And, whilst Heav'n ecchoes with his Praise,
The Almighty's self shall hear, and look, delighted, down.
XIII.
Who would not wish to have the SkillOf Tuning Instruments at Will?
Ye Pow'rs, who guide my Actions, tell
Why I, in whom the Seeds of Musick dwell,
Who most its Pow'r and Excellence admire,
Whose very Breast it self's a Lyre,
Was never taught the heav'nly Art
Of modulating Sounds,
And can no more, in Consort, bear a Part
Than the wild Roe, that o'er the Mountains bounds?
Cou'd I live o'er my Youth again,
(But ah! the Wish how idly Vain!)
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Which, like a Syren, murders Time,
Instead of dull, Scholastic Terms,
Which made me stare and fancy Charms;
With Gordon's brave Ambition fir'd,
Beyond the towering Alps, untir'd,
To tune my Voice I'd roam;
Or search the Magazines of Sound,
Where Musick's Treasures lie profound,
With Malcolm here at Home.
Malcolm, the Dear, deserving Man,
Who taught in Nature's Laws,
To spread his Country's Glory can
Practise the Beauties of the Art, and shew its Grounds and Cause.
XIV.
Let others, in their labour'd Verse,Divine Cicilia's Fame rehearse.
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Or, with feign'd Tales of Orpheus, toil to please.
They, and ten thousand more may vainly sing,
Or sweep the sounding Lyre—
At Malcolm's Name, my Juster Muse takes Wing,
And tow'rs sublimely high'r.
He, wond'rous Man! from eyeless Shades of Night
(Where long conceal'd they lay)
The Principles of Musick brings to Light,
And gives immortal Day.
The Mechanism let others know,
And in their Ways excel,
Malcolm to greater Depths can go,
Can all its hidden Charms explain, and all its Mysteries tell.
XV.
Hail, happy Friend! with God-like Vertues crown'dSkill'd in the Arts and Origine of Sound,
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Of Melody, and wakes the silent Strings;
At once, can gaze the sounding Secrets thro',
And rival Cherubs in the Practice too!
In ev'ry Page of thy great Work, we find
Criterions of thy Philosophick Mind:
For these, the Publick Labours in your Praise—
But we, blest Few! who, only, know your Lays,
A double Monument, in Gratitude, must raise.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |