I.
But let this melancholy pass:
The sing-song is not yet half over:
You quickly die; but then, alas!
Revive as quickly, like a lover.
Struck with the sound alone stark mad,
You scorn, whilst in your head 'tis ringing,
What by the world is done or said;
And one would guess so by your singing.
II.
It is not sound alone or air,
But harmony, the soul engages:
Yet harmony must not compare,
Though Handel's, to the sacred pages.
If human art to such high-flown
And dangerous compliments can win ye,
And raise “a spirit not your own,”
I fear 't will prove the devil's in ye.
III.
Avaunt, ye lies! and devils, fly the ground!
Nor break the circle of the sacred sound;
Nor mingle truths divine with Pagan dreams,
Nor Jordan's flood with Aganippe's streams.
No Thracian fable should be here;
Nor Delphic Pythoness appear,
With all Apollo's rage oppress'd,
Tormented, raving, and possess'd.
Sure, even in verse some difference is allow'd
Betwixt vain idols and the living God.
Name not Jove's nod with great Jehovah's will,
Nor join Olympus' top to Sion-hill.
