The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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On the Death of the Famous Musick-Master Mr. Henry Purcell.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
On the Death of the Famous Musick-Master Mr. Henry Purcell.
Make Room, ye happy Natives of the Sky,
Room for a Soul all Love and Harmony;
A Soul that 'rose to such Perfection here,
It scarce will be advanc'd by being there!
Room for a Soul all Love and Harmony;
A Soul that 'rose to such Perfection here,
It scarce will be advanc'd by being there!
Whether (to us by Transmigration giv'n)
He once was an Inhabitant of Heav'n;
And form'd for Musick, with diviner Fire
Endu'd, compos'd for the Celestial Quire;
Not for the Vulgar Race of Light to hear,
But on high Days to glad th'Immortal Ear;
So in some leisure Hour was sent away
(Their Hour is here a Life, a thousand Years their Day)
Sent what th'Ætherial Musick was to show,
And teach the Wonders of that Art below:
Whether this might not be the Muse appeals
To his Composures, where such Magick dwells,
As Rivals Heav'nly Skill, and Human Pow'r excels!
He once was an Inhabitant of Heav'n;
And form'd for Musick, with diviner Fire
Endu'd, compos'd for the Celestial Quire;
Not for the Vulgar Race of Light to hear,
But on high Days to glad th'Immortal Ear;
So in some leisure Hour was sent away
(Their Hour is here a Life, a thousand Years their Day)
Sent what th'Ætherial Musick was to show,
And teach the Wonders of that Art below:
Whether this might not be the Muse appeals
To his Composures, where such Magick dwells,
As Rivals Heav'nly Skill, and Human Pow'r excels!
Vile as a Sign-post Dauber's Painting shows,
Compar'd with Titian's Work or Angelo's;
Languid and low as modern Rhime appears,
When Milton's matchless Strain has tun'd our Ears,
So seem to him the Masters of our Isle;
His Inspiration, theirs but mortal Toil:
They to the Ear, He to the Soul does dive,
Like Beauty soften, and like Life revive:
Not the smooth Spheres in their eternal Rounds,
The Work of Angels, warble softer Sounds!
Compar'd with Titian's Work or Angelo's;
241
When Milton's matchless Strain has tun'd our Ears,
So seem to him the Masters of our Isle;
His Inspiration, theirs but mortal Toil:
They to the Ear, He to the Soul does dive,
Like Beauty soften, and like Life revive:
Not the smooth Spheres in their eternal Rounds,
The Work of Angels, warble softer Sounds!
Only, in chanting Crofts! 'tis only Thee,
Whose Soul has Seeds of equal Harmony:
On Thee (if Poets Wishes may befriend)
A double Portion of his Skill descend:
You follow fastest the bright Path he trod;
Keep, Lovely Youth, in the Harmonious Road:
But when the utmost of his Art you find
(As you will surely do, if Time be kind)
Think there is yet a Nobler Task behind;
And Copy (if you'd fear no future Ill)
His Fau'tless Life as well as Matchless Skill.
Whose Soul has Seeds of equal Harmony:
On Thee (if Poets Wishes may befriend)
A double Portion of his Skill descend:
You follow fastest the bright Path he trod;
Keep, Lovely Youth, in the Harmonious Road:
But when the utmost of his Art you find
(As you will surely do, if Time be kind)
Think there is yet a Nobler Task behind;
And Copy (if you'd fear no future Ill)
His Fau'tless Life as well as Matchless Skill.
What is that Heav'n of which so much we hear?
(The happy Region gain'd with Praise and Prayer)
What but one unmolested Transport? which
No Notion, or Idea e'er cou'd reach:
As it appears in Vision 'tis but this,
To be oppress'd with Joy! and Strive with Bliss!
Confounded with the Blaze of Ceaseless Day,
We know not what we think, or do, or say!
Endless Profusion! Joy without decay!
So when his Harmony arrests the Ear,
We lose all thought of what, or how, or where!
Like Love it warms, like Beauty does controul,
Like sudden Magick seizes on the whole,
And while we hear the Body turns to Soul!
(The happy Region gain'd with Praise and Prayer)
What but one unmolested Transport? which
No Notion, or Idea e'er cou'd reach:
As it appears in Vision 'tis but this,
To be oppress'd with Joy! and Strive with Bliss!
Confounded with the Blaze of Ceaseless Day,
We know not what we think, or do, or say!
Endless Profusion! Joy without decay!
So when his Harmony arrests the Ear,
We lose all thought of what, or how, or where!
Like Love it warms, like Beauty does controul,
Like sudden Magick seizes on the whole,
And while we hear the Body turns to Soul!
242
From what strange Spring did he derive the Art
To sooth our Care, and thus command the Heart?
Time list'ning stands to hear his Artful Strain,
And Death does at the dying throw his shafts in vain;
Fast to the Mortal part th'Immortal cleaves,
Nor till he leave to charm, the Body leaves.
Less Harmony than his did raise of old
The Theban Wall, and made an Age of Gold.
How in that Mystick Order cou'd he joyn
So different Notes? make Contraries combine?
And out of Discord call such sounds Divine?
How did the Seeds ly Quick'ning in his Brain?
How were they born without a Parents Pain?
He did but think, and Musick wou'd arise,
Dilating Joy, as Light o'er spreads the Skies,
From an Immortal Sourse, like that, it came;
But Light we know—this Wonder wants a Name!
To sooth our Care, and thus command the Heart?
Time list'ning stands to hear his Artful Strain,
And Death does at the dying throw his shafts in vain;
Fast to the Mortal part th'Immortal cleaves,
Nor till he leave to charm, the Body leaves.
Less Harmony than his did raise of old
The Theban Wall, and made an Age of Gold.
How in that Mystick Order cou'd he joyn
So different Notes? make Contraries combine?
And out of Discord call such sounds Divine?
How did the Seeds ly Quick'ning in his Brain?
How were they born without a Parents Pain?
He did but think, and Musick wou'd arise,
Dilating Joy, as Light o'er spreads the Skies,
From an Immortal Sourse, like that, it came;
But Light we know—this Wonder wants a Name!
What art Thou? from what Causes do'st thou spring
O Musick! thou divine Mysterious thing!
Let me but know, and, knowing, give me Voice to sing
Art thou the warmth in Spring that Zephire breaths,
Painting the Meads, and whist'ling thro' the leaves?
The happy Season that all Grief exiles,
When GOD is pleas'd, and the Creation smiles?
Or art thou Love (that Soul to Soul imparts?)
The Endless Concord of agreeing Hearts!
Or art thou Friendship? yet a Nobler Flame,
That can a dearer way make two the same!
Or art thou rather (which does all transcend)
The Centre where at last the blest ascend?
The Seat where Hallelujah's never end!
Corporeal Eyes won't let us clearly see,
But either thou art Heau'n, or Heav'n is Thee.
O Musick! thou divine Mysterious thing!
Let me but know, and, knowing, give me Voice to sing
Art thou the warmth in Spring that Zephire breaths,
Painting the Meads, and whist'ling thro' the leaves?
The happy Season that all Grief exiles,
When GOD is pleas'd, and the Creation smiles?
Or art thou Love (that Soul to Soul imparts?)
The Endless Concord of agreeing Hearts!
Or art thou Friendship? yet a Nobler Flame,
That can a dearer way make two the same!
Or art thou rather (which does all transcend)
The Centre where at last the blest ascend?
The Seat where Hallelujah's never end!
Corporeal Eyes won't let us clearly see,
But either thou art Heau'n, or Heav'n is Thee.
243
And thou, my Muse, how e'er the Criticks blame,
Pleas'd with his Worth, and faithful to his Fame,
Art Musick while y'are hallowing Purcell's Name:
On other Subjects you Applause might miss,
But Envy will it self be charm'd with this.
How oft has Envy at his Airs been found
T'admire? Enchanted with the Blissful Sound!
Ah! cou'd you quite forget his early Doom,
I wou'd not from the Rapture call You home;
But gently from your steepy height descend;
Y'ave prais'd the Artist, and now mourn the Friend.
Pleas'd with his Worth, and faithful to his Fame,
Art Musick while y'are hallowing Purcell's Name:
On other Subjects you Applause might miss,
But Envy will it self be charm'd with this.
How oft has Envy at his Airs been found
T'admire? Enchanted with the Blissful Sound!
Ah! cou'd you quite forget his early Doom,
I wou'd not from the Rapture call You home;
But gently from your steepy height descend;
Y'ave prais'd the Artist, and now mourn the Friend.
Ah most unworthy! shou'd we leave unsung
Such wond'rous Goodness in a Life so Young:
The Kindness so diffusive he profess'd,
That I, ev'n I was number'd with the rest,
Prest in his Arms, and kneaded to his Breast.
How oft has he delighted in my Lays,
And thought th'Unlearn'd Production worth his Praise?
Unjustly to that Favour 'twas prefer'd;
And it was never else his Judgment err'd.
Such wond'rous Goodness in a Life so Young:
The Kindness so diffusive he profess'd,
That I, ev'n I was number'd with the rest,
Prest in his Arms, and kneaded to his Breast.
How oft has he delighted in my Lays,
And thought th'Unlearn'd Production worth his Praise?
Unjustly to that Favour 'twas prefer'd;
And it was never else his Judgment err'd.
In Spite of Practice he this Truth has shown,
That Harmony and Vertue shou'd be ONE.
No Words he Set but what the chastest Ear
(And none were chaster than his own) might hear.
So true to Nature, and so just to Wit,
His Musick was the very Sense you writ.
Nor were his Beauties to his Art confin'd;
So justly were his Soul and Body join'd,
You'd think his Form the Product of his Mind.
A Conq'ring Sweetness in his Visage dwelt,
His Eyes wou'd warm, his Wit like Light'ning melt;
But those no more must now be seen! nor this no more be felt!
Pride was the sole Aversion of his Eye,
Himself as humble, as his Art was high.
Ah let him, Heav'n in Life so much ador'd,
Be now as Universally deplor'd!
The Muses sigh'd at his approaching Doom,
Amaz'd, and Raving as their own were come!
Art try'd the last Efforts, but cou'd not save—
But sleep! O sleep in an unenvy'd Grave!
In Life and Death the Noblest Fate you share;
Poets and Princes thy Companions are,
And both of 'em were thy Admires here:
There rest thy Ashes!—but thy Nobler Name
Shall soar aloft, and last as long as Fame.
That Harmony and Vertue shou'd be ONE.
No Words he Set but what the chastest Ear
(And none were chaster than his own) might hear.
So true to Nature, and so just to Wit,
His Musick was the very Sense you writ.
Nor were his Beauties to his Art confin'd;
So justly were his Soul and Body join'd,
You'd think his Form the Product of his Mind.
A Conq'ring Sweetness in his Visage dwelt,
His Eyes wou'd warm, his Wit like Light'ning melt;
But those no more must now be seen! nor this no more be felt!
244
Himself as humble, as his Art was high.
Ah let him, Heav'n in Life so much ador'd,
Be now as Universally deplor'd!
The Muses sigh'd at his approaching Doom,
Amaz'd, and Raving as their own were come!
Art try'd the last Efforts, but cou'd not save—
But sleep! O sleep in an unenvy'd Grave!
In Life and Death the Noblest Fate you share;
Poets and Princes thy Companions are,
And both of 'em were thy Admires here:
There rest thy Ashes!—but thy Nobler Name
Shall soar aloft, and last as long as Fame.
Nor shall thy Worth be to our Isle confin'd,
But fly, and leave the lagging Day behind.
Rome, that did once extend her Arms so far,
Y'ave conquer'd in a Nobler Art than War:
To her Proud Sons but only Earth was giv'n,
But Thou hast triumph'd both in Earth and Heav'n.
But fly, and leave the lagging Day behind.
Rome, that did once extend her Arms so far,
Y'ave conquer'd in a Nobler Art than War:
To her Proud Sons but only Earth was giv'n,
But Thou hast triumph'd both in Earth and Heav'n.
And now Farewel!—nor Fame, nor Youth, nor Art,
Nor Tears avail!—we must for ever part!
For ever! dismal Accent!—what alone
But that can tell our Loss, or reach our Moan?
What Term of Sorrow Prefer'ence dare contend?
What but the tenderest, dearest Name of Friend!
Nor Tears avail!—we must for ever part!
For ever! dismal Accent!—what alone
But that can tell our Loss, or reach our Moan?
What Term of Sorrow Prefer'ence dare contend?
What but the tenderest, dearest Name of Friend!
Hail him, ye Angels, to the Elizian Shore,
The richest Freight that ever Charon bore,
Tho' Orpheus and Amphion pass'd before.
His Skill as far exceeds, as, had his Name
Been known as long, he wou'd have done in Fame.
Tho' the wide Globe for tuneful Souls you cull,
Hope no more such;—the happy Quire is full:
The sacred Art can here arrive no higher,
And Heav'n it self no further will inspire.
The richest Freight that ever Charon bore,
Tho' Orpheus and Amphion pass'd before.
His Skill as far exceeds, as, had his Name
Been known as long, he wou'd have done in Fame.
Tho' the wide Globe for tuneful Souls you cull,
Hope no more such;—the happy Quire is full:
The sacred Art can here arrive no higher,
And Heav'n it self no further will inspire.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |