John Dryden

Here you will find the Poem Song For Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687 of poet John Dryden

Song For Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687

From 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 closing full in Man.

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?

 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,
Depths 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 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 raised the wonder higher:
When to her Organ vocal breath was given
An angel heard, and straight appear'd—
 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 blest 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.