Volume 11 — ODES, SONGS,
Reading edition
AND
LYRICAL PIECES.
FAREWELL, FAIR ARMIDA.
A SONG.
This Song was written on the death of Captain Digby, a younger son of the Earl of Bristol, who was killed in the great sea-fight between the English and Dutch, on the 28th May, 1672. The relentless beauty to whom the lines were addressed, was Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond; called in the Memoires de Grammont, La Belle Stuart. Count Hamilton there assures us, that her charms made conquest of Charles II. and were the occasion of much jealousy to the Countess of Castlemaine. Dryden's song is parodied in "The Rehearsal," in that made by "Tom Thimble's first wife after she was dead." "Farewell, fair Armida," is printed in the Covent-Garden Drollery, 1672, p. 16. where there is an exculpatory answer by the Lady, but of little merit.
Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief! In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief; Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe, Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair: Now called by my honour, I seek with content The fate which in pity you would not prevent: To languish in love were to find, by delay, A death that's more welcome the speediest way. On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire, The danger is less than in hopeless desire; My death's wound you give me, though far off I bear My fall from your sight—not to cost you a tear; But if the kind flood on a wave should convey, And under your window my body should lay, The wound on my breast when you happen to see, You'll say with a sigh—it was given by me.
THE FAIR STRANGER,
A SONG.
These verses are addressed to Louise de la Querouailles. That lady came to England with the Duchess of Orleans, when she visited her brother Charles II. in 1670. The beauty of this fair stranger made the intended impression on Charles; he detained her in England, and created her Duchess of Portsmouth. Notwithstanding the detestation in which she was held by his subjects, on account of her religion, country, and politics, she continued to be Charles's principal favourite till the very hour of his death, when he recommended her and her son to his successor's protection.
I.
H appy and free, securely blest, No beauty could disturb my rest; My amorous heart was in despair To find a new victorious fair:
II.
Till you, descending on our plains, With foreign force renew my chains; Where now you rule without controul, The mighty sovereign of my soul.
III.
Your smiles have more of conquering charms, Than all your native country's arms; Their troops we can expel with ease, Who vanquish only when we please.
IV.
But in your eyes, O! there's the spell! Who can see them, and not rebel? You make us captives by your stay; Yet kill us if you go away.
A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY.
St Cecilia was, according to her legend, a Roman virgin of rank, who flourished during the reign of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. She was a Christian, and, by her purity of life, and constant employment in the praises of her Maker, while yet on earth, obtained intercourse with an angel. Being married to Valerianus, a Pagan, she not only prevailed upon him to abstain from using any familiarity with her person, but converted him and his brother to Christianity. They were all martyrs for the faith in the reign of Septimius Severus. Chaucer has celebrated this legend in the "Second Nonne's Tale," which is almost a literal translation from the "Golden Legend" of Jacobus Januensis. As all professions and fraternities, in ancient times, made choice of a tutelar saint, Cecilia was elected the protectress of music and musicians. It was even believed that she had invented the organ, although no good authority can be discovered for such an assertion. Her festival was celebrated from an early period by those of the profession over whom she presided.
The revival of letters, with the Restoration, was attended with a similar resuscitation of the musical art; but the formation of a Musical Society, for the annual commemoration of St Cecilia's day, did not take place until 1680. An ode, written for the occasion, was set to music by the most able professor, and rehearsed before the society and their stewards upon the 22d November, the day dedicated to the patroness. The first effusions of this kind are miserable enough. Mr Malone has preserved a few verses of an ode, by an anonymous author, in 1633; that of 1684 was furnished by Oldham, whom our author has commemorated by an elegy; that of 1685 was written by Nahum Tate, and is given by Mr Malone, Vol. I. p. 274. There was no performance in 1686; and, in 1687, Dryden furnished the following ode, which was set to music by Draghi, an eminent Italian composer. Of the annual festival, Motteux gives the following account:
"The 22d of November, being St Cecilia's day, is observed throughout all Europe by the lovers of music. In Italy, Germany, France, and other countries, prizes are distributed on that day, in some of the most considerable towns, to such as make the best anthem in her praise.... On that day, or the next when it falls on a Sunday, ... most of the lovers of music, whereof many are persons of the first rank, meet at Stationers' Hall in London, not through a principle of superstition, but to propagate the advancement of that divine science. A splendid entertainment is provided, and before it is always a performance of music, by the best voices and hands in town: the words, which are always in the patronesses praise, are set by some of the greatest masters. This year [1691] Dr John Blow, that famous musician, composed the music; and Mr D'Urfey, whose skill in things of that nature is well known, made the words. Six stewards are chosen for each ensuing year; four of which are either persons of quality or gentlemen of note, and the two last either gentlemen of their majesties music, or some of the chief masters in town.... This feast is one of the genteelest in the world; there are no formalities nor gatherings as at others, and the appearance there is always very splendid. Whilst the company is at table, the hautboys and trumpets play successively."
The merit of the following Ode has been so completely lost in that of "Alexander's Feast," that few readers give themselves even the trouble of attending to it. Yet the first stanza has exquisite merit; and although the power of music is announced, in those which follow, in a manner more abstracted and general, and, therefore, less striking than when its influence upon Alexander and his chiefs is placed before our eyes, it is perhaps only our intimate acquaintance with the second ode that leads us to undervalue the first, although containing the original ideas, so exquisitely brought out and embodied in "Alexander's Feast."
A
SONG
FOR
ST CECILIA'S DAY,
22d NOVEMBER, 1687.
I.
F rom 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[96] closing full in man.
II.
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?
III.
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.
IV.
The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers; Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
V.
Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame.
VI.
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.
VII.
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[97] 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.
THE TEARS OF AMYNTA,
FOR THE
DEATH OF DAMON.
A SONG.
I.
O n a bank, beside a willow, Heaven her covering, earth her pillow, Sad Amynta sighed alone; From the cheerless dawn of morning Till the dews of night returning, Singing thus, she made her moan: Hope is banished, Joys are vanished, Damon, my beloved, is gone!
II.
Time, I dare thee to discover Such a youth, and such a lover; Oh, so true, so kind was he! Damon was the pride of nature, Charming in his every feature; Damon lived alone for me: Melting kisses, Murmuring blisses; Who so lived and loved as we!
III.
Never shall we curse the morning, Never bless the night returning, Sweet embraces to restore: Never shall we both lie dying, Nature failing, love supplying All the joys he drained before. Death, come end me, To befriend me; Love and Damon are no more.
A SONG.
I.
Sylvia, the fair, in the bloom of fifteen, Felt an innocent warmth as she lay on the green; She had heard of a pleasure, and something she guest By the towzing, and tumbling, and touching her breast. She saw the men eager, but was at a loss, What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close; By their praying and whining, And clasping and twining, And panting and wishing, And sighing and kissing, And sighing and kissing so close.
II.
Ah! she cried, ah, for a languishing maid, In a country of Christians, to die without aid! Not a Whig, or a Tory, or Trimmer at least, Or a Protestant parson, or Catholic priest, To instruct a young virgin, that is at a loss, What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close! By their praying and whining, And clasping and twining, And panting and wishing, And sighing and kissing, And sighing and kissing so close.
III.
Cupid, in shape of a swain, did appear, He saw the sad wound, and in pity drew near; Then showed her his arrow, and bid her not fear, For the pain was no more than a maiden may bear. When the balm was infused, she was not at a loss, What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close; By their praying and whining, And clasping and twining, And panting and wishing, And sighing and kissing, And sighing and kissing so close.
THE LADY'S SONG.
The obvious application of this song is to the banishment of King James, and his beautiful consort Mary of Este.
I.
A choir of bright beauties in spring did appear, To chuse a May-lady to govern the year: All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green, The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen; But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say, I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
II.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore, The Graces are banished, and Love is no more; The soft god of pleasure, that warmed our desires, Has broken his bow, and extinguished his fires, And vows that himself and his mother will mourn, Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
III.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more, For we will perform what the deity swore: But, if you dare think of deserving our charms, Away with your sheep hooks, and take to your arms; Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn, When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx, return.
A SONG.
I.
F air, sweet, and young, receive a prize Reserved for your victorious eyes: From crowds, whom at your feet you see, O pity, and distinguish me! As I from thousand beauties more Distinguish you, and only you adore.
II.
Your face for conquest was designed, Your every motion charms my mind; Angels, when you your silence break, Forget their hymns, to hear you speak; But when at once they hear and view, Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you.
III.
No graces can your form improve, But all are lost, unless you love; While that sweet passion you disdain, Your veil and beauty are in vain: In pity then prevent my fate, For after dying all reprieve's too late.
A SONG.
H igh state and honours to others impart, But give me your heart; That treasure, that treasure alone, I beg for my own. So gentle a love, so fervent a fire, My soul does inspire; That treasure, that treasure alone, I beg for my own. Your love let me crave; Give me in possessing So matchless a blessing; That empire is all I would have. Love's my petition, All my ambition; If e'er you discover So faithful a lover, So real a flame, I'll die, I'll die, So give up my game.
RONDELAY.
I.
C hloe found Amyntas lying, All in tears, upon the plain, Sighing to himself, and crying, Wretched I, to love in vain! Kiss me, dear, before my dying; Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
II.
Sighing to himself, and crying, Wretched I, to love in vain! Ever scorning, and denying To reward your faithful swain. Kiss me, dear, before my dying; Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
III.
Ever scorning, and denying To reward your faithful swain.— Chloe, laughing at his crying, Told him, that he loved in vain. Kiss me, dear, before my dying; Kiss me once, and ease my pain,
IV.
Chloe, laughing at his crying, Told him, that he loved in vain; But, repenting, and complying, When he kissed, she kissed again: Kissed him up before his dying; Kissed him up, and eased his pain.
A SONG.
I.
G o tell Amynta, gentle swain, I would not die, nor dare complain: Thy tuneful voice with numbers join, Thy words will more prevail than mine. To souls oppressed, and dumb with grief, The gods ordain this kind relief, That music should in sounds convey, What dying lovers dare not say.
II.
A sigh or tear, perhaps, she'll give, But love on pity cannot live. Tell her that hearts for hearts were made, And love with love is only paid. Tell her my pains so fast increase, That soon they will be past redress; But, ah! the wretch that speechless lies, Attends but death to close his eyes.
A SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY,
GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING.
I.
A sk not the cause, why sullen spring So long delays her flowers to bear? Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year? Chloris is gone, and fate provides To make it spring where she resides.
II.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye; But left her lover in despair, To sigh, to languish, and to die. Ah, how can those fair eyes endure, To give the wounds they will not cure!
III.
Great god of love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
IV.
When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs, And every life but mine recal. I only am, by love, designed To be the victim for mankind.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST,
OR
THE POWER OF MUSIC;
AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST CECILIA'S DAY.
This celebrated Ode was written for the Saint's Festival in 1697, when the following stewards officiated: Hugh Colvill, Esq.; Capt. Thomas Newman; Orlando Bridgeman, Esq.; Theophilus Buller, Esq.; Leonard Wessell, Esq.; Paris Slaughter, Esq.; Jeremiah Clarke, Gent.; and Francis Rich, Gent. The merits of this unequalled effusion of lyrical poetry, are fully discussed in the general criticism.
I.
'T was 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.
II.
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 spheres 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.
III.
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 shews 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.
CHORUS.
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldiers pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.
IV.
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain: Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.— The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And, while he heaven and earth defied, Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful muse, Soft pity to infuse; He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood: Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed; On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving, in his altered soul, The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.
CHORUS.
Revolving, in his altered soul, The various turns of chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.
V.
The mighty master smiled, to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures: War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour, but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying: If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think it worth enjoying; Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee— The many rend the skies with loud applause; So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair, Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again; At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
CHORUS.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair, Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again; At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
VI.
Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head; As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries, See the furies arise; See the snakes, that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And, unburied, remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods.— The princes applaud, with a furious joy, And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
CHORUS.
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
VII.
Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down.
GRAND CHORUS.
At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down.
VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS,
PARAPHRASED.
C reator spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come visit every pious mind; Come pour thy joys on human kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make thy temples worthy thee. O source of uncreated light, The Father's promised Paraclete! Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; Come, and thy sacred unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command. } { Proceeding spirit, our defence, { Who do'st the gifts of tongues dispense, { And crown'st thy gift with eloquence. Refine and purge our earthly parts; But, O, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice controul, Submit the senses to the soul; And, when rebellious they are grown, Then lay thy hand, and hold them down. Chace from our minds the infernal foe; And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way. Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe; Give us thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by thee. Immortal honour, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father's name; The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost man's redemption died; And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee.