lirik lagu robert speaight - an ode for music by william collins
when music, heav’nly maid, was young
while yet in early greece she sung
the passions oft, to hear her sh~ll
throng’d around her magic cell
exulting, trembling, raging, fainting
possest beyond the muse’s painting;
by turns they felt the glowing mind
disturb’d, delighted, rais’d, refin’d:
till once, ’tis said, when all were fir’d
fill’d with fury, rapt, inspir’d
from the supporting myrtles round
they sn~tch’d her instruments of sound;
and as they oft had heard apart
sweet lessons of her forceful art
each, for madness rul’d the hour
would prove his own exprеssive pow’r
first fear his hand, its sk!ll to try
amid the chords bеwilder’d laid
and back recoil’d, he knew not why
ev’n at the sound himself had made
next anger rush’d; his eyes, on fire
in lightnings own’d his secret stings;
in one rude clash he struck the lyre
and swept with hurried hand the strings
with woful measures wan despair
low sullen sounds his grief beguil’d;
a solemn, strange, and mingled air;
’twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild
but thou, o hope, with eyes so fair
what was thy delightful measure;
still it whisper’d promis’d pleasure
and bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
still would her touch the strain prolong
and from the rocks, the woods, the vale
she call’d on echo still thro’ all the song;
and where her sweetest theme she chose
a soft responsive voice was heard at ev’ry close
and hope enchanted smil’d, and wav’d her golden hair
and longer had she sung,~but with a frown
revenge impatient rose;
he threw his blood~stain’d sword in thunder down
and with a with’ring look
the war~denouncing trumpet took
and blew a blast so loud and dread
were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of woe
and ever and anon he beat
the doubling drum with furious heat;
and tho’ sometimes, each dreary pause between
dejected pity, at his side
her soul~subduing voice applied
yet still he kept his wild unalter’d mien
while each strain’d ball of sight seem’d bursting from his head
thy numbers, jealousy, to nought were fix’d
sad proof of thy distressful state;
of diff’ring themes the veering song was mix’d
and now it courted love, now raving call’d on hate
with eyes uprais’d, as one inspir’d
pale melancholy sate retir’d
and from her wild sequester’d seat
in notes by distance made more sweet
pour’d thro’ the mellow h~rn her pensive soul:
and, dashing soft from locks around
bubbling runnels join’d the sound;
thro’ glades and glooms the mingled measure stole;
or o’er some haunted stream with fond delay
round an holy calm diffusing
love of peace and lonely musing
in hollow murmurs died away
but oh, how alter’d was its sprightlier tone
when cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue
her bow across her shoulder flung
her buskins gemm’d with morning dew
blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung
the hunter’s call to faun and dryad known!
the oak~crown’d sisters, and their chaste~ey’d queen
satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen
peeping from forth their alleys green;
brown exercise rejoic’d to heal
and sport leapt up, and seiz’d his beechen spear
last came joy’s ecstatic trial
he, with viny crown advancing
first to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
but soon he saw the brisk awak’ning viol
whose sweet entrancing voice he lov’d the best
they would have thought, who heard the strain
they saw in tempe’s vale her native maids
amidst the vestal sounding shades
to some unwearied minstrel dancing
while, as his flying fingers kiss’d the strings
love fram’d with mirth a gay fantastic round;
loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound
and he, amidst his frolic play
as if he would the charming air repay
shook thousand odours from his dewy wings
o music, sphere~descended maid
friend of pleasure, wisdom’s aid
why, goddess, why, to us denied
lay’st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
as in that lov’d athenian bow’r
you learn’d an all~commanding pow’r
thy mimic soul, o nymph endear’d
can well recall what then it heard
where is thy native simple heart
devote to virtue fancy, art?
arise as in that eider time
warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
thy wonders, in that godlike age
fill thy recording sister’s page.~
’tis said, and i believe the tale
thy humblest reed could more prevail
had more of strength, diviner rage
than all which charms this laggard age
ev’n all at once together found
cæcilia’s mingled world of sound
o bid our vain endeavours cease
revive the just designs of greece
return in all thy simple state
confirm the tales her sons relate!
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