Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology!

Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare the way;

And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came

To teach the nation in thy greater name.'

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A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1687

I

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began:

When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

'Arise, ye more than dead.'

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began ;

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

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ΙΟ

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II

What passion cannot music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound:

20

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

III

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.

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30

Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

VII

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

Grand Chorus

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the bless'd above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

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60

THE PERIOD OF CLASSICISM

MATTHEW PRIOR

1664-1721

AN ODE

THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name :
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;

When Chloe noted her desire,

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;

But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:

I sung and gaz'd: I played and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

JOHN GAY

1685-1732

GO, ROSE, MY CHLOE'S BOSOM GRACE

'Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace !

How happy should I prove,

Might I supply that envied place

With never-fading love!

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15

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die!
Know, hapless flower! that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there;

I see thy with'ring head reclined

With envy and despair!

One common fate we both must prove;
You die, with envy; I, with love.'

O, RUDDIER THAN THE CHERRY
[From Acis and Galatea]

O, RUDDIER than the cherry!
O, sweeter than the berry!
O, Nymph more bright
Than moonshine night!
Like kidlings blithe and merry!

Ripe as the melting cluster!

No lily has such luster!

Yet hard to tame

As raging flame;

And fierce as storms that bluster!

ALEXANDER POPE

1688-1744

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM

[From Part II]

Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.

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