JOHN DRYDEN

The trumpet's loud clangour

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 O, 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 unrooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre ;

But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher: When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appear'd

Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

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