The Poetical Works of John Langhorne ... To which are prefixed, Memoirs of the Author by his Son the Rev. J. T. Langhorne ... In Two Volumes |
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A
POEM
TO
THE MEMORY OF MR. HANDEL. |
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| II. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Langhorne |  |
79
A POEM TO THE MEMORY OF MR. HANDEL.
WRITTEN IN 1760.
81
Spirits of music, and ye powers of song,
That wak'd to painful melody the lyre
Of young Jessides, when, in Sion's vale
He wept o'er bleeding friendship; ye that mourn'd,
While freedom, drooping o'er Euphrates' stream,
Her pensive harp on the pale osier hung,
Begin once more the sorrow-soothing lay.
That wak'd to painful melody the lyre
Of young Jessides, when, in Sion's vale
He wept o'er bleeding friendship; ye that mourn'd,
While freedom, drooping o'er Euphrates' stream,
Her pensive harp on the pale osier hung,
Begin once more the sorrow-soothing lay.
Ah! where shall now the Muse fit numbers find?
What accents pure to greet thy tuneful shade,
Sweet harmonist? 'twas thine, the tender fall
Of pity's plaintive lay; for thee the stream
Of silver-winding music sweeter play'd,
And purer flow'd for thee—all silent now
Those airs that, breathing o'er the breast of Thames,
Led amorous Echo down the long, long vale,
Delighted; studious from thy sweeter strain
To melodise her own; when fancy-lorn,
She mourns in anguish o'er the drooping breast
Of young Narcissus. From their amber urns,
Parting their green locks streaming in the sun,
The Naiads rose and smil'd: nor since the day,
When first by music, and by freedom led
From Grecian Acidale; nor since the day,
When last from Arno's weeping fount they came,
To smooth the ringlets of Sabrina's hair,
Heard they like minstrelsy—fountains and shades
Of Twit'nam, and of Windsor fam'd in song!
Ye heights of Clermont, and ye bowers of Ham!
That heard the fine strain vibrate thro' your groves,
Ah! where were then your long-lov'd Muses fled,
When Handel breath'd no more?—and thou, sweet Queen,
That nightly wrapt thy Milton's hallow'd ear
In the soft ecstacies of Lydian airs;
That since attun'd to Handel's high-wound lyre
The lay by thee suggested; could'st not thou
Sooth with thy sweet song the grim fury's breast?
What accents pure to greet thy tuneful shade,
Sweet harmonist? 'twas thine, the tender fall
Of pity's plaintive lay; for thee the stream
Of silver-winding music sweeter play'd,
And purer flow'd for thee—all silent now
Those airs that, breathing o'er the breast of Thames,
Led amorous Echo down the long, long vale,
Delighted; studious from thy sweeter strain
To melodise her own; when fancy-lorn,
82
Of young Narcissus. From their amber urns,
Parting their green locks streaming in the sun,
The Naiads rose and smil'd: nor since the day,
When first by music, and by freedom led
From Grecian Acidale; nor since the day,
When last from Arno's weeping fount they came,
To smooth the ringlets of Sabrina's hair,
Heard they like minstrelsy—fountains and shades
Of Twit'nam, and of Windsor fam'd in song!
Ye heights of Clermont, and ye bowers of Ham!
That heard the fine strain vibrate thro' your groves,
Ah! where were then your long-lov'd Muses fled,
When Handel breath'd no more?—and thou, sweet Queen,
That nightly wrapt thy Milton's hallow'd ear
In the soft ecstacies of Lydian airs;
That since attun'd to Handel's high-wound lyre
The lay by thee suggested; could'st not thou
Sooth with thy sweet song the grim fury's breast?
Cold-hearted Death! his wanly-glaring eye
Nor Virtue's smile attracts, nor Fame's loud trump
Can pierce his iron ear, for ever barrd
To gentle sounds: the golden voice of song,
That charms the gloomy partner of his birth,
That soothes Despair and Pain, he hears no more,
Than rude winds, blust'ring from the Cambrian cliffs,
The traveller's feeble lay. To court fair fame,
To toil with slow steps up the star-crown'd hill,
Where Science, leaning on her sculptur'd urn,
Looks conscious on the secret-working hand
Of Nature; on the wings of genius borne,
To soar above the beaten walks of life,
Is, like the paintings of an evening cloud,
Th' amusement of an hour. Night, gloomy night
Spreads her black wings, and all the vision dies.
Nor Virtue's smile attracts, nor Fame's loud trump
Can pierce his iron ear, for ever barrd
To gentle sounds: the golden voice of song,
That charms the gloomy partner of his birth,
That soothes Despair and Pain, he hears no more,
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The traveller's feeble lay. To court fair fame,
To toil with slow steps up the star-crown'd hill,
Where Science, leaning on her sculptur'd urn,
Looks conscious on the secret-working hand
Of Nature; on the wings of genius borne,
To soar above the beaten walks of life,
Is, like the paintings of an evening cloud,
Th' amusement of an hour. Night, gloomy night
Spreads her black wings, and all the vision dies.
Ere long, the heart, that heaves this sigh to thee,
Shall beat no more! ere long, on this fond lay
Which mourns at Handel's tomb, insulting Time
Shall strew his cankering rust. Thy strain, perchance,
Thy sacred strain shall the hoar warrior spare;
For sounds like thine, at Nature's early birth,
Arous'd him slumbering on the dead profound
Of dusky chaos; by the golden harps
Of choral angels summon'd to his race:
And sounds like thine, when Nature is no more,
Shall call him weary from the lengthen'd toils
Of twice ten thousand years. O would his hand
Yet spare some portion of this vital flame,
The trembling Muse that now faint effort makes
On young and artless wing, should bear thy praise
Sublime, above the mortal bounds of earth,
With heavenly fire relume her feeble ray,
And, taught by Seraphs, frame her song for thee.
Shall beat no more! ere long, on this fond lay
Which mourns at Handel's tomb, insulting Time
Shall strew his cankering rust. Thy strain, perchance,
Thy sacred strain shall the hoar warrior spare;
For sounds like thine, at Nature's early birth,
Arous'd him slumbering on the dead profound
Of dusky chaos; by the golden harps
Of choral angels summon'd to his race:
And sounds like thine, when Nature is no more,
Shall call him weary from the lengthen'd toils
Of twice ten thousand years. O would his hand
Yet spare some portion of this vital flame,
The trembling Muse that now faint effort makes
On young and artless wing, should bear thy praise
Sublime, above the mortal bounds of earth,
With heavenly fire relume her feeble ray,
And, taught by Seraphs, frame her song for thee.
84
I feel, I feel the sacred impulse—hark!
Wak'd from according lyres the sweet strains flow
In symphony divine: from air to air
The trembling numbers fly: swift bursts away
The flow of joy—now swells the flight of praise.
Springs the shrill trump aloft; the toiling chords
Melodious labour thro' the flying maze;
And the deep base his strong sound rolls away,
Majestically sweet—Yet, Handel, raise,
Yet wake to higher strains thy sacred lyre:
The Name of ages, the Supreme of things,
The great Messiah asks it; He whose hand
Led into form yon everlasting orbs,
The harmony of Nature—He whose hand
Stretch'd o'er the wilds of space this beauteous ball,
Whose spirit breathes thro' all his smiling works
Music and love—yet, Handel, raise the strain.
Wak'd from according lyres the sweet strains flow
In symphony divine: from air to air
The trembling numbers fly: swift bursts away
The flow of joy—now swells the flight of praise.
Springs the shrill trump aloft; the toiling chords
Melodious labour thro' the flying maze;
And the deep base his strong sound rolls away,
Majestically sweet—Yet, Handel, raise,
Yet wake to higher strains thy sacred lyre:
The Name of ages, the Supreme of things,
The great Messiah asks it; He whose hand
Led into form yon everlasting orbs,
The harmony of Nature—He whose hand
Stretch'd o'er the wilds of space this beauteous ball,
Whose spirit breathes thro' all his smiling works
Music and love—yet, Handel, raise the strain.
Hark! what angelic sounds, what voice divine
Breathes thro' the ravisht air! my rapt ear feels
The harmony of Heaven. Hail sacred Choir!
Immortal Spirits, hail! If haply those
That erst in favour'd Palestine proclaim'd
Glory and peace: her angel-haunted groves,
Her piny mountains, and her golden vales
Re-echo'd peace—But, Oh! suspend the strain—
The swelling joy's too much for mortal bounds!
Tis transport even to pain.
Breathes thro' the ravisht air! my rapt ear feels
The harmony of Heaven. Hail sacred Choir!
Immortal Spirits, hail! If haply those
That erst in favour'd Palestine proclaim'd
Glory and peace: her angel-haunted groves,
Her piny mountains, and her golden vales
Re-echo'd peace—But, Oh! suspend the strain—
The swelling joy's too much for mortal bounds!
Tis transport even to pain.
85
Yet, hark! what pleasing sounds invite mine ear
So venerably sweet? 'Tis Sion's lute.
Behold her hero! from his valiant brow
Looks Judah's lion, on his thigh the sword
Of vanquish'd Apollonius—The shrill trump
Thro' Bethoron proclaims th' approaching fight.
I see the brave youth lead his little band,
With toil and hunger faint; yet from his arm
The rapid Syrian flies. Thus Henry once,
The British Henry, with his way-worn troop,
Subdu'd the pride of France—Now louder blows
The martial clangor: lo Nicanor's host!
With threat'ning turrets crown'd, slowly advance
The ponderous elephants—
The blazing sun, from many a golden shield
Reflected, gleams afar. Judean chief!
How shall thy force, thy little force sustain
The dreadful shock! The hero comes—'Tis boundless mirth and song
And dance and triumph; every labouring string,
And voice, and breathing shell in concert strain
To swell the raptures of tumultuous joy.
So venerably sweet? 'Tis Sion's lute.
Behold her hero! from his valiant brow
Looks Judah's lion, on his thigh the sword
Of vanquish'd Apollonius—The shrill trump
Thro' Bethoron proclaims th' approaching fight.
I see the brave youth lead his little band,
With toil and hunger faint; yet from his arm
The rapid Syrian flies. Thus Henry once,
The British Henry, with his way-worn troop,
Subdu'd the pride of France—Now louder blows
The martial clangor: lo Nicanor's host!
With threat'ning turrets crown'd, slowly advance
The ponderous elephants—
The blazing sun, from many a golden shield
Reflected, gleams afar. Judean chief!
How shall thy force, thy little force sustain
The dreadful shock! The hero comes—'Tis boundless mirth and song
And dance and triumph; every labouring string,
And voice, and breathing shell in concert strain
To swell the raptures of tumultuous joy.
O master of the passions and the soul,
Seraphic Handel! how shall words describe
Thy music's countless graces, nameless powers!
Seraphic Handel! how shall words describe
Thy music's countless graces, nameless powers!
86
When
he of Gaza, blind, and sunk in chains,
On female treachery looks greatly down,
How the breast burns indignant! in thy strain,
When sweet-volc'd piety resigns to heaven,
Glows not each bosom with the flame of virtue?
On female treachery looks greatly down,
How the breast burns indignant! in thy strain,
When sweet-volc'd piety resigns to heaven,
Glows not each bosom with the flame of virtue?
O'er Jephtha's votive maid when the soft lute
Sounds the slow symphony of funeral grief,
What youthful breast but melts with tender pity?
What parent bleeds not with a parent's woe?
Sounds the slow symphony of funeral grief,
What youthful breast but melts with tender pity?
What parent bleeds not with a parent's woe?
O, longer than this worthless lay can live!
While fame and music sooth the human ear;
Be this thy praise: to lead the polish'd mind
To Virtue's noblest heights; to light the flame
Of British freedom, rouse the generous thought,
Refine the passions, and exalt the soul
To love, to heaven, to harmony and thee.
While fame and music sooth the human ear;
Be this thy praise: to lead the polish'd mind
To Virtue's noblest heights; to light the flame
Of British freedom, rouse the generous thought,
Refine the passions, and exalt the soul
To love, to heaven, to harmony and thee.
| The Poetical Works of John Langhorne | |