LORD H---NL---Y AND ST. CECILIA.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE ------.
Sir,
Having heard some rumours respecting the strange and awful visitation
under which Lord H---nl---y has for some time past been suffering,
in consequence of his declared hostility to “anthems, solos, duets
,” &c., I
took the liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship's house this morning,
and lose no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect.
It is said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this
nightly concert, (which is, no doubt, some trick of the Radicals,) may be
heard all over the neighbourhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia
is supposed to be the same that, last year, appeared in the character of Isis,
at the Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained.
Yours, &c. P. P.
------ in Metii descendat Judicis aures.
Horat.
As snug in his bed Lord H---nl---y lay,
Revolving much his own renown,
And hoping to add thereto a ray,
By putting duets and anthems down,
Sudden a strain of choral sounds
Mellifluous o'er his senses stole;
Whereat the Reformer mutter'd, “Zounds!”
For he loath'd sweet music with all his soul.
Then, starting up, he saw a sight
That well might shock so learn'd a snorer—
Saint Cecilia, rob'd in light,
With a portable organ slung before her.
And round were Cherubs, on rainbow wings,
Who, his Lordship fear'd, might tire of flitting,
So begg'd they'd sit—but ah! poor things,
They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.
“Having heard,” said the Saint, “you're fond of hymns,
“And indeed, that musical snore betray'd you,
“Myself, and my choir of cherubims,
“Are come, for a while, to serenade you.”
In vain did the horrified H---nl---y say
“'Twas all a mistake”—“she was misdirected;”
And point to a concert, over the way,
Where fiddlers and angels were expected.
In vain—the Saint could see in his looks
(She civilly said) much tuneful lore;
So, at once, all open'd their music-books,
And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.
All night duets, terzets, quartets,
Nay, long quintets most dire to hear;
Ay, and old motets, and canzonets,
And glees, in sets, kept boring his ear.
He tried to sleep—but it wouldn't do;
So loud they squall'd, he must attend to 'em;
Though Cherubs' songs, to his cost he knew,
Were like themselves, and had no end to 'em.
Oh judgment dire on judges bold,
Who meddle with music's sacred strains!
Judge Midas tried the same of old,
And was punish'd, like H---nl---y, for his pains.
But worse on the modern judge, alas!
Is the sentence launch'd from Apollo's throne;
For Midas was given the ears of an ass,
While H---nl---y is doom'd to keep his own!
