I.
The clown, (a brute!) as well he might,
Gapes at the sounds that would amaze one,
Terms that like conjuring affright,
As “solo, fugue, and diapason.”
Some god, he guesses, is at least
In the' organ that his heart so pierces;
Which none was ever such a beast
To fancy of thy lyric verses.
II.
“It speaks so sweet, so wondrous well:”
How strong the thought! how fine the rhyme is!
That line, if Dennis aught can tell,
A perfect pattern of sublime is.
Should strains like these stop the career
Of Puritanic zeal advancing,
As strange the story would appear
As Orpheus with his country-dancing.
III.
Though rage accurst the frantic breast can swell
With more than barbarous Puritanic zeal,
Music divine demands the poet's praise,
Worthy Cæcilia's ode and Dryden's lays.
Thy numbers yet unheeded flow;
And reason is they should do so:
Nor needs the fancy heighten'd be
To scorn thy grovelling poetry.
Let Phillips sing sweet Philomela's fate;
Who durst the' harmonious artist emulate?
Concerns it you? except like her you try,
Then drop the contest, flag the wings, and die.
