 | The Philosopher in Bristol |  |
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The Powers of Harmony,
An O D E.
I.
Nymphs of the sacred Hill! to you belong,The Grace and Energy of song!
And while your praises I rehearse,
Oh deign to smile upon my verse;
Whether by Aganippe's fount ye stray,
Or Heliconian springs your flight delay:
Reclin'd on Avon's verdant side,
Where commerce swells the rolling tide,
I call the sacred virgins to inspire:
Aid me!—Oh aid me, while I strike the Lyre!
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II.
Sure, 'tis an heavenly voice that sings!Some hand immortal sweeps the strings!
To Jesse's harp the magic notes belong:
He sings, and lo!—the powerful song
Makes Israel's King affrighted stand:
The javelin trembles in his nerveless hand;
And vengeance, weaken'd by the melting strain,
Strives to strike,—but strives in vain.
Each furious passion in the Monarch's breast
Hides its head, and sinks to rest.
—Again he listens to the Lyre!
The slumbering tyrants of the heart
Spread their black wings and quick depart;
While the pleasing sounds inspire
A purer flame,—a gentler fire.
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III.
But hark! I hear a loud, tumultuous strainRise on the breezes of the western main!
From Mona's heights, the Druid throng
Strike on their harps the dying song
Of Liberty:—the enliv'ning sounds inspire
Their hallowed bosoms with impetuous fire:
Enrag'd they hurry to the war,
Where grim death threatens in his scythed car;
Their madd'ning fury scorns to fear
Th' uplifted sword,—the hissing spear;
The griesly warrior they defy;—
They liv'd for freedom, and for freedom die.
They strike their harps in death:—the awful sound
Spreads havoc and confusion round.
Beside their harps the mangled forms remain,
To glut the vulture and pollute the plain!
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IV.
Why, gentle shepherd, on the mountain's brow,With dangerous footsteps dost thou love to go?
Careless where thy flocks shall stray,
Why dost thou sometimes take the dubious way
Within the thorny tanglings of the wood,
Or where the willow weeps beside the flood?—
Has Amaryllis' voice thy bosom charm'd,
And all thy tender feelings warm'd
With anxious love and soft desire?
Return, thou pensive swain, the amorous fire!
Oh make the reed declare thy flame,
And teach the echoes Amaryllis' name!—
Thy notes shall steal into her breast,
And with their softening power, controul
The secret wishes of her soul.
Oh! let her hear the tender strain!
Lur'd by the sound she'll quit the plain;—
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Stray 'mid the tanglings of the wood,
Or with the willow weep beside the flood;
Thy warblings sweet will her fond passion move:
And bend her alter'd soul to thee—and love!
V.
Oh, turn not thine attentive earTo those sweét sounds, thou lovely boy!
Those pleasing sounds 'tis death to hear;
They only sooth thee to destroy!
'Tis Circe sings to tempt thee to her bower,—
There hath she scatter'd every sweetest flower:
But 'midst her flowers do poisonous adders lie,
And her enchanting bowers but lead to infamy.
Turn, turn thine eyes to where yon circling train
Enjoy the pleasures of the plain:
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With them the festive hours prolong
In harmless sports and merry glee,
To sound of rural minstrelsy.
Their pleasures Virtue doth attend,
For pleasure there is Virtue's friend.
VI.
The passions rise, again they die,By the power of harmony!
The soft lute sooths the lover's pains!
The trumpet sounds in martial strains,
And lo!—the Veteran, mark'd with many a scar,
Hastes impatient to the war!
While to the sacred Choir tis given,
To raise the enraptur'd soul to Heaven.
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VII.
Here cease my simple Lyre!Let other Bards to nobler heights aspire!
Let them with bolder pinion try
To trace the course of that fix'd harmony,
Which nature, all obedient, hears;
Which marks the day, and marks the hour,
Commands the ocean's wave, directs the spheres,
And through Creation bears the heavenly power.
I only strike the sounding shell,
In low and inexpressive verse, to tell
That Music's power can controul
The passions of the human soul:
That when fair H***lh***e strikes the tuneful strings,
A rose-lip'd cherub sweetly sings;
—That all the grace and energy of song,
To B---y's magic powers belong.
| The Philosopher in Bristol | |