I used to teach Dryden, but somehow always missed this grand and glorious composition. It should remind us that the Restoration could do lyric very well when it tried; and never better than this, which I am happy to share on the Feast of St Cecilia, martyr and patron of music.
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687
From harmony, from Heav'nly 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 pow'r obey.
From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony
This
universal frame began:
From
harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing
full in man.
What passion cannot music raise and quell!
When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His list'ning
brethren stood around
And
wond'ring, 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!
The
trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms
With
shrill notes of anger
And
mortal alarms.
The
double double double beat
Of the thund'ring 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 oh! what art can teach
What
human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their Heav'nly 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 high'r;
When
to her organ, vocal breath was giv'n,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking earth for Heav'n.
As from the pow'r of sacred lays
The
spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all
the bless'd 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.
Dryden, by Sir Godfrey Kneller
