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 Of the thundering drum Cries, Hark! the foe's 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, Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race, Sequacious of the Lyre; But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher, GRAND CHORUS. As from the pow'r of sacred lays And sung the great Creator's praise So when the last and dreadful hour } ANONYMOUS. THE IVY. HOW yonder ivy courts the oak, And clips it with a false embrace! So I abide a wanton's yoke, And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. How fain the tree would swell its rind! So fares it with my shackled mind, A lass, forlorn for lack of grace, And now my death must prove, I guess, For now she rules me with her look, But, had the oak denied its shade, Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness Published by W. SUTTABY, CROSBY and Co. and SCATCHERD and LETTERMAN, Stationers Court. 1809. Corrall, Printer, Charing Cross. |