27. A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687. 1. FROM harmony, from heav'nly harmony And cou'd not heave her head, From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, II. 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! III. The trumpet's loud clangour Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger Cries, Hark! the foes come; IV. The soft complaining flute The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. V. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, VI. But oh! what art can teach, Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways VII. Orpheus cou'd lead the savage race; But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher : 28. When to her organ vocal breath was giv'n, GRAND CHORus. As from the pow'r of sacred lays So when the last and dreadful hour 1743 Edition. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Song. THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And ev'ry pang that rends the heart, Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, And still, as darker grows the night, 1816 Edition. 29. Elegy written in a Country THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, |