Poems on different occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

O ye whom most the Muses bless,
Who chief the sacred gift possess,
By music's power to charm;
Now call ye forth each tuneful strain,
Now bid soft breathing flutes complain,
And trumpets loud alarm.
Cecilia, sainted maid, demands,
That on this day, the lute and lyre,
Just tribute from the tuneful bands,
In noblest symphonies conspire;
And stooping softly from the sky,
Cecilia, in this hallowed time,
Will not her powerful aid deny,
To swell the song with airs sublime.

But, hark! what strains of minstrelsy arise?
The lutes and lyres their voice confound,
While notes of more than mortal sound
Gain gently on the skies.
O, sounds with ravishment that take the ear!
Cecilia, Nymph divine, is near,
The mistress of the tuneful quire,
These heavenly numbers to inspire.
O yet ye winds each ruder breath delay,
While now the queen of song prepares
Her store of sweetly varied airs,
To consecrate the day.

II.

First the voice of warbling flutes,
With soft notes the skies salutes,
And the music glides away
In a measure light and gay.
Flow, sweet numbers, that beguile
Wrinkled care and melancholly,
That bid youthful fancy smile,
And inspire a pleasing folly.

Whither am I led along?
Can the music of the song,
This soft delusion bring?
Thro' the groves I seem to stray,
Thro' the groves of pleasant May,
Where the sweet birds sing.
An happy swain,
I tread the plain,
And sport along the vale;
By murmuring streams,
That sooth to dreams,
I catch the whispering gale.
Shepherds blow their pipes around me,
Secret shades,
Sunny glades,
Opening lawns and dales confound me.
Let my brows with flowers be bound,
Let me trace the woodlands round,
While to my strain,
Each hill and plain,
The praises of the nymphs resound.

III.

But notes of loftier music now succeed;
Farewel the plain and shepherds reed.
Hark! the trumpet awakes
All its martial sounds,
'Till our echoing bounds,
The loud clangor shakes.
Now swells a bold strain to rouse warlike rage;
When glory incites us the battle to wage,
Who shall delay
Her call to obey,
Who shuns in the strife to engage?
Resound, O ye trumpets, these martial alarms,
'Till the youth whom love detains,
In inglorious chains,
Shall rush forth an hero in arms.
O! notes of wild tumult, that bear all around
The loud din of war in your hoarse swelling sound
The dire ranks of battle, now, rush on my sight;
I stand where fierce hosts are array'd for the fight;

Lo, squadrons that shake the keen lance,
In arms shining afar,
Mighty chiefs rush to war,
And boldly their ensigns advance.
Now in fight they conspire,
Now the fierce battle burns,
Now they press, now retire,
As the tide of war turns.
With long shouts redoubled the fight they maintain,
And high deeds of valour are wrought in the plain,
Whilst aspiring to crown
Their brows with renown,
All perils and death they disdain.

IV.

The trumpet's breath hath spent its martial rage;
Let softer measures next engage.
O! hear what notes so sad and slow,
Are these beginning now to flow,
Shook from the strings of trembling lutes,
And breathing deep from soft complaining flutes?

O! lute, that note of sorrow,
Whence hast thou power to borrow?
Thro' dark and dreary plains I seem to go,
Where uttering mournful strains of woe,
A tender female train
Lament the youths in battle dead,
And sadly sighing bow the head,
And call upon the slain.
And now I cast my eyes around,
Where fallen warriors press the ground:
And now I hear the wailing throng,
Their soft complainings breath along:
“O! Heroes, brave in vain,
By the dire rage of wasting war,
Far from your native fields, Oh! far,
In flower of youth untimely slain.
Forsaken on a dreary shore,
Our hapless fortune, we deplore.”
The tender mother, in a last embrace,
Clasps her pale son with fruitless anguish;
The nymphs with tears bedews the clay-cold face,
Doom'd o'er a lover's coarse to languish.

Oh! let the stubborn heart of pride,
Relent in soft and tender thought,
Her spear let mad ambition hide,
And weep the wrongs her bloody hand has wrought.

V.

But chearful sounds ascending ring,
Our sorrows to dispel;
Light notes are swept from trembling string,
While bolder strains, the trumpets bring,
That in gay transport swell.
Now loudly resounds the full quire;
Pale grief, with thy sad train, retire;
Exulting and gay,
The notes sweep away,
And with gladness our bosoms inspire.
Now bright scenes are rising around,
Whilst echo redoubles this song;
I stand in some fair city's bound,
Where with joyful acclaim and glad sound,
A triumph is passing along.

Elate in his high car of pride,
I see the fam'd conqueror ride;
Deck'd with glittering spoils,
The reward of their toils,
His martial bands press at his side.
Around, the admiring crouds throng,
The hero victorious to greet,
And now thro' each echoing street,
Resounds the full joy of their song.
“Give honour and praise to the brave,
Whose valour their country can save:
Our enemies, late our dismay,
Are fled from our plains with affright,
The battle no more to array;
Their heroes are slain in the fight.
With laurels now crown our brave band,
The dance and the banquet restore;
Our enemies sigh in their land,
But gladness resounds on our shore.
Give honour and praise to the brave,
Whose valour their country can save.”

VI.

The joyous tumult of the notes subsides:
In sober lays the music glides,
And now the lyre prepares,
A strain that mildly flows along,
Gentle, yet without tumult strong,
Soft, yet not wanton airs.
This is the measure, whose blest notes asswage
The boiling of tumultuous rage,
That bids the soul to better aims incline,
And bow at virtue's awful shrine.
Virtue! bright celestial maid,
Now to thee our vows are paid:
Now we burn with thy pure fires,
Whilst each baser thought retires,
Charmed by this sacred measure,
Wild desire, vain hope, vain pleasure,
Mirth unholy, fierce debate,
Crooked guile, and sullen hate.
Virtue! nymph of race divine,
Now our souls entire are thine.

And now, whilst sacred thought these strains incite,
By mortals seldom seen,
Lo! virtue, sovereign queen,
With heavenly look advances to our sight.
O! holy nymph, whose gentle grace
Proclaims the friend of human race.
On heaven her eyes still fixing bright,
On earth yet shedding fairer light,
Her hand the sceptre waving slow,
Her garments white in simple show,
Nor nicely coy, nor loosely vain,
In easy pride she sweeps the plain.
Around her all the graces play,
Meekness, charming rage away,
Calm delight,
Truth rob'd in white,
Content that pain and care beguiles,
Innocence with infant smiles,
And blooming hope for ever gay.
O! glorious vision, O! enchanting lyre,
Whose sweet accords to raise this scene conspire.

VII.

What charming strains to bless our mortal bounds,
Has fair Cecilia lent with matchless art?
And yet, O! nymph divine, thy noblest sounds,
Remain a higher rapture to impart.
Hark, the soft organ lifts its voice on high,
And now with notes resounding long,
While the full quire sustains the song,
A solemn strain possesses all the sky;
Of matchless power, our breasts to swell
With holy joy, and from her secret cell
To call devotion to inspire,
Each trembling bosom with religious fire.
O! awful notes! this is the solemn song,
Which the high host of angels pour along,
Like to deep thunders, or the sound
Of mighty waters, vast, profound.
No mortal bounds our spirits now can hold;
Farewell, O! earth! ye skies your gates unfold;

I see, I see that land beyond the skies,
Where cherubims with holy sound
The throne of heav'ns high king surround,
Where seraphs sing with voice that never dies.
Hail happy fields! seats of the blest,
Who here from mortal warfare rest;
Ambrosial founts, where pleasures pure,
Rejoicing spirits quaff secure;
Fair vales by pious feet still trod;
Hail, happy mansions, courts of God.
And now I hear the lofty song of praise,
Which with full voice, the bands of seraphs raise.
“Resound, ye angels! O! resound his name,
Whom not the spacious heav'n of heavens contains,
Who first from darkness drew the mighty frame,
Who to the starry host their course ordains.
Resound, ye angels! O! his name resound,
Whose throne eternal truth and goodness found.”
O! heavenly notes! O! lend to me the lyre,
Ye angels, ministers of praise!
That my weak accents may conspire,
The solemn symphony with you to raise.

VIII.

But soon, too soon these heavenly scenes retire;
Alas! why sink our feeble souls again?
That sound has ceas'd which bad the soul aspire,
Their tuneful breath the organs now restrain.
And now Cecilia, queen of song,
Whose notes have blest our bounds so long,
This last and solemn service paid,
Of sweetly-grave religious airs,
From mortal bands withdraws her aid,
And to the starry sphere repairs.
O! let our grateful thanks with measure due
The heavenly virgin still pursue.
And ye the chief who haunt the Muses hill,
To fair Cecilia oft your praise renew,
And in your songs admire that matchless skill,
Which sacred sounds, first from the organ drew.
As fair Cecilia, heavenly maid,
Entranc'd in holy dream was laid,

'Tis sung that angels oft were near,
Who blest with heavenly forms her sight,
And oft their sweet harps would delight
With note of heavenly song her ear.
Cecilia mark'd the music of their lyres,
And bad the long-resounding organ blow,
In notes which from seraphic quires,
She drew to raise our hymns below.
Amaz'd, we hear the lofty song,
That fills the sacred courts above;
Our swelling bosoms glow with holy love,
We mount the skies, and join the angelic throng.