Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 67

     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.

     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 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,

     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 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 appear'd—

      Mistaking Earth for Heaven!

     As from the power of sacred lays

      The spheres began to move,

     And sung the great Creator's praise

      To all the blest 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.