There’s tempest in yon horned moon,
  And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners! 
  The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
  The lightning flashing free—­
While the hollow oak our palace is,
  Our heritage the sea.

1847 Edition.

* * * * *

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

26. Song.

The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest,
  And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
He takes this window for the east;
  And to implore your light, he sings: 
“Awake, awake! the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

“The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,
  The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,
  Who look for day before his mistress wakes. 
Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn! 
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.”

1810 Edition.

* * * * *

JOHN DRYDEN.

27. A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day, 1687.

I.

From harmony, from heav’nly harmony
  This universal frame began: 
  When nature underneath a heap
      Of jarring atoms lay,
    And cou’d 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.

II.

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!

III.

    The trumpet’s loud clangour
      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.

IV.

      The soft complaining flute
      In dying notes discovers
      The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper’d by the warbling lute.

V.