LXIII SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony And could not heave her head, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot Music raise and quell? Less than a God they thought there could not dwell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!' The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach, Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: Grand Chorus As from the power of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour LXIV ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones E Forget not: In thy book record their groans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they J. Milton LXV HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND The forward youth that would appear, His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, So restless Cromwell could not cease And like the three-fork'd lightning first, His fiery way divide: For 'tis all one to courage high The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. "Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where (As if his highest plot Could by industrious valour climb Though Justice against Fate complain, Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room What field of all the civil war Where, twining subtle fears with hope, That Charles himself might chase That thence the Royal actor borne He nothing common did or mean The axe's edge did try; Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, -This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcéd power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line, A Bleeding Head, where they begun, And now the Irish are ashamed That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, Nor yet grown stiffer with command, That can so well obey ! Ile to the Commons' feet presents And has his sword and spoils ungirt |