A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 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 Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat." The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins complain Their jealous pangs and desperation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, 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 UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF JOHN But guide us upward to a better day. MILTON. And as these nightly tapers disappear, When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere; So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight; So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light. A future cordial for a fainting mind; For, what was ne'er refused, all hoped to find, Each in his turn, the rich might freely come, As to a friend; but to the poor, 'twas home. As to some holy house the afflicted came, The hunger-starved, the naked and the lame; Want and disease both fled before her name, For zeal like hers her servants were too slow; She was the first, where need required, to go; Herself the foundress and attendant too. [From Eleonora.] BEAUTIFUL DEATH. As precious gums are not for lasting fire, They but perfume the temple, and expire: So was she soon exhaled and vanished hence; A short sweet odor of a vast expense. She vanished, we can scarcely say she died: For but a now did heaven and earth divide: She passed serenely with a single breath; This moment perfect health, the next was death: One sigh did her eternal bliss assure; So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue; Or, one dream passed, we slide into a |