ODE VII. ON INSTRUMENTS OF MUSIC.
IRREGULAR.
I.
Where health and high spirits awaken the morn,
And dash thro' the dews, that impearl the rough thorn,
To shouts and to cries
Shrill Echo replies;
While the Horn prompts the shout, and the shout greets the Horn.
II.
Loud across the upland ground,
Sweetly mellowing down the vale,
The changeful Bells ring jocund round,
Where Joy bestrides the gale;
Herald eager to proclaim
The Lover's bliss, or Hero's fame.
III.
Shall the Fiddle's sprightly strain,
In Pleasure's realms our feet detain,
Where Youth and Beauty in the dance
Borrow new charms from Elegance?
IV.
Or shall we stray,
Where stately thro' the public way,
Amidst the Trumpet's clangors and th' acclaim
Of civic zeal, in long procession move
Nobles and Chiefs of venerable fame;
Or haply Sovereign Majesty displays
To public view the lustre of its rays,
And proves at once, and wins, a Nation's love.
V.
Hark! how the solemn Organ calls
Attention's sober ears to hallow'd walls;
Where meek, yet warm, beneath the Temple's shade
Devotion seeks with stedfast eyes
The God, whose Glories every gloom pervade,
To whom for ever prayer is made,
And daily praises rise!
VI.
What notes in swiftest cadence running,
Thro' many a maze of varied measure,
Mingled by the master's cunning,
Give th' alarm to festive pleasure?
Cambria! 'twas thus thy Harps of old,
Each gallant heart's recess explor'd;
Announcing Feats of Chieftains bold,
To grace the hospitable board.
VII.
Mark how the Soldier's eye
Looks proud defiance! How his heart beats high
With glorious expectation! What inspires—
What fans his martial fires?
What but the power of Sound?
The clamorous Drums his anxious ardour raise,
His blood flows quicker round;
At once he hears, he feels, enjoys, obeys.
VIII.
Where gath'ring storms incessant lower,
And nigard Nature chills th' abortive grain;
From her bleak heights see Scotland pour
Blithe Lads and Lasses trim; an hardy train,
Down the crag, and o'er the lea,
Following still with hearty glee
The Bagpipes mellow minstrelsy.
IX.
Where cloudless suns with glowing dies
Tinge Italy's serener skies,
Soft, the winding lawns along,
The Lover's Lute complains;
While ling'ring Echo learns the song,
Gives it the woods, and loth to lose
One accent of th' impassion'd Muse,
Bids woods return it to the plains.
X.
Time was when, stretch'd beneath the beechen shade,
The simple Shepherd warbled his sweet lay;
Lur'd to his rustic Reed the gentle maid,
Welcom'd the morn, and caroll'd down the day.
Why do our Swains depart from ancient lore?
Why sounds no Past'ral Reed on Britain's shore?
—The Innocence, which tuned it, is no more!
