CHORUS.

Next, let the solemn organ join
Religious airs, and strains divine,
Such as may lift us to the skies,
And set all Heaven before our eyes: 
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’Such as may lift us to the skies;
So far at least till they
Descend with kind surprise,
And meet our pious harmony half-way.’

  Let then the trumpet’s piercing sound
  Our ravished ears with pleasure wound. 
       The soul o’erpowering with delight,
  As, with a quick uncommon ray,
  A streak of lightning clears the day,
       And flashes on the sight.
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  Let Echo too perform her part,
  Prolonging every note with art,
       And in a low expiring strain
       Play all the concert o’er again.

  Such were the tuneful notes that hung
  On bright Cecilia’s charming tongue: 
  Notes that sacred heats inspired,
  And with religious ardour fired: 
  The love-sick youth, that long suppress’d
  His smothered passion in his breast,
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  No sooner heard the warbling dame,
     But, by the secret influence turn’d,
  He felt a new diviner flame,
     And with devotion burn’d.

  With ravished soul, and looks amazed,
  Upon her beauteous face he gazed;
     Nor made his amorous complaint: 
  In vain her eyes his heart had charm’d,
  Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm’d,
     And changed the lover to a saint.
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GRAND CHORUS.

And now the choir complete rejoices,
With trembling strings and melting voices. 
The tuneful ferment rises high,
And works with mingled melody: 
Quick divisions run their rounds,
A thousand trills and quivering sounds
In airy circles o’er us fly,
Till, wafted by a gentle breeze,
They faint and languish by degrees,
And at a distance die.
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AN ACCOUNT OF THE GREATEST ENGLISH POETS

TO MR HENRY SACHEVERELL.  APRIL 3, 1694.

  Since, dearest Harry, you will needs request
  A short account of all the Muse-possess’d,
  That, down from Chaucer’s days to Dryden’s times,
  Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes;
  Without more preface, writ in formal length,
  To speak the undertaker’s want of strength,
  I’ll try to make their several beauties known,
  And show their verses’ worth, though not my own.

     Long had our dull forefathers slept supine,
  Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine;
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  Till Chaucer first, the merry bard, arose,
  And many a story told in rhyme and prose. 
  But age has rusted what the poet writ,
  Worn out his language, and obscured his wit;
  In vain he jests in his unpolished strain,
  And tries to make his readers laugh in vain. 
     Old Spenser next, warmed with poetic rage,
  In ancient tales amused a barbarous age;