To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda1 died:

Heaven by the same disease did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas

His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return with vain devotion pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,

The winds too soon will waft thee here!

Slack all thy sails, and fear to come;

Alas! thou knowst not, thou art wrecked at home.
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou kenst from far,
Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the Valley of Jehosophat

The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep

For those who wake and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly

From the four corners of the sky;

When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,

Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are covered with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go,
As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learned below.

1 Orinda, the poetess Katharine Philips, who died of small-pox in 1664 her thirty-third year. Anne Killigrew wrote some verses in her honour.

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

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, irom 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.

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:

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?

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 fces come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.

The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered 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, What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees unrooted 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 blessed 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.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, The Power of Music.

A song in honour of St. Cecilia's Day, 1697.

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son:

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne;

His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crowned.)

The lovely Thais, by his side,

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

Chorus.

Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair,

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,

Who left his blissful seats above,

(Such is the power of mighty love)

A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed;
And while he sought her snowy breast,

Then round her slender waist he curled,

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,

A present deity, they shout around;

A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravished ears

The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

Chorus.

With ravished ears
The monarch hears,

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flushed with a purple grace

He shows his honest face:

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.