The Modern Dunciad :: :: University of Virginia Library

O for a sound more soft and clear,
Than burst upon the ravish'd ear,
When touch'd with God's ethereal fire,
The holy Bard, in lofty lays,
Broke forth in prophecy and praise,
And bade his soul-subduing lyre
Foretell the bright events of future days!

And Thou, who tun'd the varying strings
Of David's harp to sounds of woe,
When angels bow'd their silver wings
To hear the heav'nly numbers flow,
When I attempt immortal rhyme,
A theme so sacred, so sublime,
That bade all heav'n with hallelujahs ring;
Let holy zeal each note prolong,
And breathe thy spirit o'er the song
Of God's anointed Son, and heav'n's eternal King!

O Salem! what a day is thine,
Behold the Star of mercy shine,

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See hope her hallow'd temple rears!
Lift up your eyes, and hail the morn,
To you a holy babe is born,
The child of promis'd years;
Music floats on ether wings,
The woods rejoice, the desart sings!

Bow your heads, ye mountains high,
Assembled nations prostrate fall—
Hark! the hills exulting cry—
“He brings salvation down to all!”

Softly sweet the echo rings—
“Glory to the King of Kings!
And peace to men be giv'n.—”
Praise him ye planets as ye roll,
Ye stars that gild yon shining Pole,
And all ye Hosts of heav'n!

Lo, the sound hath reach'd the skies!
Hark! what strains seraphic rise
Among the heav'nly choirs—
List'ning saints their voices raise,
Swell the chorus of his praise,
And strike their golden Lyres!

To thee redemption's work is dear,
Thy love shall wipe the sinner's tear,

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Thy hand his cruel bondage break:—
The dumb shall lift their song to thee,
The lame shall walk, the blind shall see;
Thy voice shall bid the dead awake!

To those of meek and lowly heart,
Thy grace shall sov'reign balm impart,
And prove the saints' eternal guide;
The fainting soul thy Shepherd's care
Shall gently lead to pastures fair,
Where Zion's crystal waters glide.

No more shall war, with iron reign,
His death-denouncing trumpet blow;
Heap up his mountains of the slain,
And fill the world with woe.—

But heav'nly Peace, on dove-like wing,
To all shall loud Hosannahs sing,
While heathen lands, with cheerful voice,
A Saviour's glory shall proclaim,
And learn the music of his name,
Afric, behold thy King—rejoice! rejoice!

In that dread hour of mortal doom,
When Death shall final ruin spread;

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And earth, from ev'ry yawning tomb
Shall render up her dead—

Thy saints, on wings of angels borne,
With joyful hymns shall hail the morn,
When, to relieve the sinner's woes,
To save his soul from guilty fears,
And wipe away repenting tears,
Prompt at the gracious call, the Star of Mercy rose.