The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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THE ORATORIO. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
THE ORATORIO.
Genius of Music! whom, as poets say,
Spirits of earth and distant worlds obey!
Lend me thine aid, while I attempt, in rhyme,
Thy grandest triumph ever heard through time!
Spirits of earth and distant worlds obey!
Lend me thine aid, while I attempt, in rhyme,
Thy grandest triumph ever heard through time!
301
Fade from my mind, ye country concerts all,
Church oratorios, and each private ball;
Your puny strains are feeble, weak, and poor
As the Jew's harp o'erpower'd by ocean's roar,
Compar'd with those which burst in such grand strain
As Britain's sons may never hear again!
Far was it known, that soon, in Ebor old,
The world's great minstrels would a gathering hold;
The carriages through dust swift rolled along,
Bearing their inmates to the scene of song.
The good old city, deck'd in modern grace,
Smil'd as they came, and show'd a cheerful face,
But look'd with sad and sullen frowns again,
If any cloud let fall a shower of rain.
Church oratorios, and each private ball;
Your puny strains are feeble, weak, and poor
As the Jew's harp o'erpower'd by ocean's roar,
Compar'd with those which burst in such grand strain
As Britain's sons may never hear again!
Far was it known, that soon, in Ebor old,
The world's great minstrels would a gathering hold;
The carriages through dust swift rolled along,
Bearing their inmates to the scene of song.
The good old city, deck'd in modern grace,
Smil'd as they came, and show'd a cheerful face,
But look'd with sad and sullen frowns again,
If any cloud let fall a shower of rain.
Had some great bard been there, he might have seen
Hundreds of instruments, encased in green;
Or boxes, from all parts of England sent,
Wherein were basses, books, and viols pent,
All ranks of people throng to the hotel,
And scarcely e'er at rest the ostler's bell;
And there were trunks which Europe's costumes fill,
To grace their owners in the gay quadrille;
Servants in every various colour dressed,
And on the glitt'ring harness many a crest;
Most brilliant equipages throng each street,
And, jostling, every kind of carriage meet;
Astonished thousands on the Minster gaze,
And join to give the noble structure praise:
For far beyond description is the pile—
The queen of buildings in our native isle,—
Whose grandeur and magnificence unite
To strike with awe, or fill us with delight!
How grand, when England's beauties, fair and young,
Assemble there to listen to the song,
And youth and hoary-headed age combine
To call the scene magnificently fine!
Like gardens in full bloom, the ladies' heads,
When Zephyr lightly on the roses treads.
All flow'rs that deck the vale or crown the hill,
Were imitated there with nicest skill;
But brighter far, the lovely ladies' eyes
Than flow'rs and feathers of the richest dyes.
Hundreds of instruments, encased in green;
Or boxes, from all parts of England sent,
Wherein were basses, books, and viols pent,
All ranks of people throng to the hotel,
And scarcely e'er at rest the ostler's bell;
And there were trunks which Europe's costumes fill,
To grace their owners in the gay quadrille;
Servants in every various colour dressed,
And on the glitt'ring harness many a crest;
Most brilliant equipages throng each street,
And, jostling, every kind of carriage meet;
302
And join to give the noble structure praise:
For far beyond description is the pile—
The queen of buildings in our native isle,—
Whose grandeur and magnificence unite
To strike with awe, or fill us with delight!
How grand, when England's beauties, fair and young,
Assemble there to listen to the song,
And youth and hoary-headed age combine
To call the scene magnificently fine!
Like gardens in full bloom, the ladies' heads,
When Zephyr lightly on the roses treads.
All flow'rs that deck the vale or crown the hill,
Were imitated there with nicest skill;
But brighter far, the lovely ladies' eyes
Than flow'rs and feathers of the richest dyes.
The hour arriv'd—high up above the throng,
Stood the Euterpean votaries of song.
All was still as death!—a solemn awe
Pervaded all men's hearts, through what they saw!
Proud titles and distinctions were forgot,
Though Albion's noblest sons were on the spot;
Gay youths on beauty's charms forbore to gaze,
Eager to hear the Eternal Father's praise.
The distant organ glorious to behold,
King of all instruments, shone bright in gold;
Trombones and double basses, placed around,
Waiting the signal for majestic sound.
And was not Handel's spirit hov'ring near
His own grand chorus, when it burst, to hear?
O pardon me, ye mighty shades of song,
If in imagination I am wrong!
The gorgeous splendour now I all forget,
And view the shades of great composers met—
Croft, Kent, and Purcell, kings of England's choir,
Descend to touch the chords with genial fire;
Unseen, with Luther, on the air they skim,
Nor soar to heav'n till they have heard his hymn.
Stood the Euterpean votaries of song.
All was still as death!—a solemn awe
Pervaded all men's hearts, through what they saw!
Proud titles and distinctions were forgot,
Though Albion's noblest sons were on the spot;
Gay youths on beauty's charms forbore to gaze,
Eager to hear the Eternal Father's praise.
The distant organ glorious to behold,
King of all instruments, shone bright in gold;
303
Waiting the signal for majestic sound.
And was not Handel's spirit hov'ring near
His own grand chorus, when it burst, to hear?
O pardon me, ye mighty shades of song,
If in imagination I am wrong!
The gorgeous splendour now I all forget,
And view the shades of great composers met—
Croft, Kent, and Purcell, kings of England's choir,
Descend to touch the chords with genial fire;
Unseen, with Luther, on the air they skim,
Nor soar to heav'n till they have heard his hymn.
The assembled thousands, wrapp'd in silence all,
See the grand host obey their leader's call.
Within the instruments lies music's fire,
And ev'ry string is tuned within the choir;
Six hundred minds, who know each cadence sweet,
In one stupendous choral phalanx meet!
Silent they stand, until the signal's given;
And then the chorus bursts like that of heav'n,
Tremendous, and the stoutest heart confounds,
And York's proud temple trembles with the sounds.
Those who have met the foes on foreign hills
Without a fear, now feel the shudd'ring thrills,
Which shining cuirassiers could never bring,
Nor death, though flying on the battle's wing;
But, here, the mighty strains the stoutest melt,
And wake an awe they ne'er till now had felt—
Strains sweet as are the lark's, which fans the cloud,
Mix'd with the trumpet shrill, and sackbut loud.
Viols and voices swell the chorus forth,
And tones of bass might seem to spring from earth.
All parts so full—the mind can wish no more,
Except for deeper bass the tempest's roar.
The organ swells—what more can earth perform?
Its voice is loud as ocean in a storm!
The chorus heightens, and the organ's sound
Is in the mighty swell of voices drown'd;
And “Gloria Patri” in such strains is giv'n,
As we no more shall hear on this side heav'n.
See the grand host obey their leader's call.
Within the instruments lies music's fire,
And ev'ry string is tuned within the choir;
Six hundred minds, who know each cadence sweet,
In one stupendous choral phalanx meet!
Silent they stand, until the signal's given;
And then the chorus bursts like that of heav'n,
Tremendous, and the stoutest heart confounds,
And York's proud temple trembles with the sounds.
Those who have met the foes on foreign hills
Without a fear, now feel the shudd'ring thrills,
Which shining cuirassiers could never bring,
Nor death, though flying on the battle's wing;
304
And wake an awe they ne'er till now had felt—
Strains sweet as are the lark's, which fans the cloud,
Mix'd with the trumpet shrill, and sackbut loud.
Viols and voices swell the chorus forth,
And tones of bass might seem to spring from earth.
All parts so full—the mind can wish no more,
Except for deeper bass the tempest's roar.
The organ swells—what more can earth perform?
Its voice is loud as ocean in a storm!
The chorus heightens, and the organ's sound
Is in the mighty swell of voices drown'd;
And “Gloria Patri” in such strains is giv'n,
As we no more shall hear on this side heav'n.
O for a power that I to all could tell
The praise of those who play'd and sung so well!
First, Cramer's worth should grace my humble song,
And Mori's praise should to my theme belong;
Anfossi, Loder, Knyvett I would praise,
Though my weak verse their fame no more can raise:
And, with the warmest feelings I would write
Of music's friend, the well-known genius, White.
Had I but time, each name I would put in,
Of all who play'd a choral violin—
Ashley and Daniels, with their tenor strain,
While these my verses last, should here remain;
Lindley, and Crouch, and Richardson, and Sharp,
Moxon, and Platt, and Bochsa, with his harp;
And those of foreign climes, all great in song,
Whose names I write not, lest I write them wrong,
And fail due praise to genius to impart—
'Tis useless—since they live in ev'ry heart.
Phillips and Vaughan, with their fine duet,
Made many a lady's cheek with tear-drops wet.
The modest Farrar scarcely durst aspire
To touch, in graceful strains, sweet “Jubal's lyre.”
“Let the bright seraphim,” sweet Stephens sung,
As though the notes from angel-voices sprung.
His voice great Sapio in such strains could raise,
That the charm'd throng could scarce refrain from praise.
When Braham sung with all his power and skill,
He turned the blood of all the audience chill.
The great and noble, young, and old, and fair,
Felt the full charm of his sublimest air;
While beauteous Caradori stood alone
For warbling trills, and melody of tone.
The praise of those who play'd and sung so well!
First, Cramer's worth should grace my humble song,
And Mori's praise should to my theme belong;
Anfossi, Loder, Knyvett I would praise,
Though my weak verse their fame no more can raise:
And, with the warmest feelings I would write
Of music's friend, the well-known genius, White.
Had I but time, each name I would put in,
Of all who play'd a choral violin—
Ashley and Daniels, with their tenor strain,
While these my verses last, should here remain;
305
Moxon, and Platt, and Bochsa, with his harp;
And those of foreign climes, all great in song,
Whose names I write not, lest I write them wrong,
And fail due praise to genius to impart—
'Tis useless—since they live in ev'ry heart.
Phillips and Vaughan, with their fine duet,
Made many a lady's cheek with tear-drops wet.
The modest Farrar scarcely durst aspire
To touch, in graceful strains, sweet “Jubal's lyre.”
“Let the bright seraphim,” sweet Stephens sung,
As though the notes from angel-voices sprung.
His voice great Sapio in such strains could raise,
That the charm'd throng could scarce refrain from praise.
When Braham sung with all his power and skill,
He turned the blood of all the audience chill.
The great and noble, young, and old, and fair,
Felt the full charm of his sublimest air;
While beauteous Caradori stood alone
For warbling trills, and melody of tone.
In music's art, I have but little skill,
Yet oft I find its powers old Care can kill;
Though distant, fancy yields me some delight—
Methinks I hear the notes all touched aright,
With many a singer from a foreign land—
The songs, the trios, and the chorus, grand!
As when on seas the storm begins to lower,
And the dread tempest brings forth all its power
Far distant from the calm and tranquil shore,
Where we scarce hear the white-topp'd surges roar;
But as to land the billows roll along,
Louder and louder bursts the awful song,
Until the rocky cavern on the beach
The mountain waves in dreadful fury reach;
Then we poor mortals stand in mute amaze,
And on the scene tremendous trembling gaze:
So did the finest solos of the choir
Send forth their strains, and then again retire;
The trio breaks still more distinct and clear,
And stronger tones burst forth upon the ear;
The swelling semi-chorus louder grows,
And then it dies away in graceful close.
“He is the King of Glory” next we hear,
As though deep thunder and the storm were there.
All know their parts—the chorus swells with ease
From voices louder than “the sound of seas.”
Yet oft I find its powers old Care can kill;
Though distant, fancy yields me some delight—
Methinks I hear the notes all touched aright,
306
The songs, the trios, and the chorus, grand!
As when on seas the storm begins to lower,
And the dread tempest brings forth all its power
Far distant from the calm and tranquil shore,
Where we scarce hear the white-topp'd surges roar;
But as to land the billows roll along,
Louder and louder bursts the awful song,
Until the rocky cavern on the beach
The mountain waves in dreadful fury reach;
Then we poor mortals stand in mute amaze,
And on the scene tremendous trembling gaze:
So did the finest solos of the choir
Send forth their strains, and then again retire;
The trio breaks still more distinct and clear,
And stronger tones burst forth upon the ear;
The swelling semi-chorus louder grows,
And then it dies away in graceful close.
“He is the King of Glory” next we hear,
As though deep thunder and the storm were there.
All know their parts—the chorus swells with ease
From voices louder than “the sound of seas.”
Though far-fam'd Catalina be not here,
Braham, to England's bosoms, is as dear;
For shall our native poets' words give way
To foreign lines, forgot ere ends the day?
To foreign pride shall British genius bend,
While Albion's isle to Braham is a friend?
No—British songs, well touched in ev'ry part,
Are those which please the best, and reach the heart:
Italian trills may loud applauses reap,
But Braham's voice can make the stoutest weep.
Braham, to England's bosoms, is as dear;
For shall our native poets' words give way
To foreign lines, forgot ere ends the day?
307
While Albion's isle to Braham is a friend?
No—British songs, well touched in ev'ry part,
Are those which please the best, and reach the heart:
Italian trills may loud applauses reap,
But Braham's voice can make the stoutest weep.
Where is the tow'ring soul can comprehend
Those scenes, which never truly can be penned,
Where grandeur and sublimity appear,
To charm the eye, or to astound the ear?
When were the tones of such an organ drowned,
And far o'erpowered each instrumental sound?
When were a hundred viols played in vain?
Or when was lost the trumpet's piercing strain?
The chorus bursts!—it shakes the massive walls—
The human voice, like great Niag'ra's falls,
O'erpowers the double basses and trombones,
The loud bass horns, and serpents' deepest tones.
Though Haworth's Parker strain his potent lungs,
Yet when at once burst forth three hundred tongues,
His thrilling accents can be heard no more
Than cry of sea-gull in the ocean's roar.
Those scenes, which never truly can be penned,
Where grandeur and sublimity appear,
To charm the eye, or to astound the ear?
When were the tones of such an organ drowned,
And far o'erpowered each instrumental sound?
When were a hundred viols played in vain?
Or when was lost the trumpet's piercing strain?
The chorus bursts!—it shakes the massive walls—
The human voice, like great Niag'ra's falls,
O'erpowers the double basses and trombones,
The loud bass horns, and serpents' deepest tones.
Though Haworth's Parker strain his potent lungs,
Yet when at once burst forth three hundred tongues,
His thrilling accents can be heard no more
Than cry of sea-gull in the ocean's roar.
When Yorkshire's choral sons their powers unite,
Their tones astonish, and their chords delight;
Healthful and strong, their voices may defy
In strength, all singers else beneath the sky,
Yes, when they sung the song which Israel sung
On the sea-shore, to harps their minstrels strung,
Lost were the viols' trills, the organ's strain,
The chorus bursts—“The Lord shall ever reign!”
Grand, as when all the tribes with Moses crossed
'Tween wat'ry walls, when all their foes were lost.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
Re-echoes through each vaulted arch again!
And, as the strains increase, still more and more
We seem transported to the distant shore,
Where Moses, Israel's bard, composed the song,
And ocean's waves the chorus rolled along.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
In heaven itself, must be the highest strain!
Their tones astonish, and their chords delight;
Healthful and strong, their voices may defy
In strength, all singers else beneath the sky,
308
On the sea-shore, to harps their minstrels strung,
Lost were the viols' trills, the organ's strain,
The chorus bursts—“The Lord shall ever reign!”
Grand, as when all the tribes with Moses crossed
'Tween wat'ry walls, when all their foes were lost.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
Re-echoes through each vaulted arch again!
And, as the strains increase, still more and more
We seem transported to the distant shore,
Where Moses, Israel's bard, composed the song,
And ocean's waves the chorus rolled along.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
In heaven itself, must be the highest strain!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |