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On the DEATH of the late Famous Mr. HENRY PƲRCELL, Author of the First and Second Books of Orpheus Britannicus.
MAke room ye happy Natives of the Sky,
Room for a Soul, all Love and Harmony;
A Soul that rose to such Perfection here,
It scarce will be advanc'd by being there.
Whether (to us by Transmigration given)
He once was an Inhabitant of Heav'n,
And form'd for Musick, with Diviner Fire
Endu'd, Compos'd for the Celestial Choir;
Not for the Vulgar Race of Light to hear,
But on High-days to glad th' Immortal Ear.
So in some leisure hour was sent away,
(Their Hour is here a Life, a Thousand Years their Day.
Sent what th' Aetherial Musick was to show,
And teach the wonders of that Art below.
Whether this might not be, the Muse appeals
To his Composures, where such Magick dwells,
As Rivals Heav'nly Skill, and human Pow'r ex∣cels.
Vile as a Sign-post Dauber's Painting show's,
Compar'd with Titian's Work, or Angelo's;
Languid and low, as Modern Rhime appears,
When Virgil's matchless Strain has tun'd our Ears,
So seem to him the Masters of our Isle,
His Inspiration, theirs but Mortal Toil:
They to the Ear, he to the Soul does dive,
From Anger save, and from Despair revive:
Not the smooth Spheres in their Eternal Rounds,
The work of Angels, warble softer Sounds.
What is that Heav'n of which so much we hear
(The happy Region gain'd with Praise and Pray'r)
What but one unmolested Transport, which
No Notion, or Idea e'er cou'd reach?
As it appears in Vision, 'tis but this,
To be opprest with Joy, and strive with Bliss!
Confounded with the Rays of ceaseless day,
We know not what we think, or see, or say!
Endless Profusion! Joy without decay!
So, when his Harmony arrests the Far,
We lose all thought of what, or how, or where!
Like Love, it warms, like Beauty, does controul,
Like hidden Magick seizes on the whole,
And while we hear, the Body turns to Soul!
From what blest Spring did he derive the Art,
To sooth our Cares, and thus command the Heart!
Time list'ning stands to hear his artful Strain,
And Death does at the Dying, throw his shafts in vain;
Fast to th' Immortal part the Mortal cleaves,
Nor, till he leave to Charm, the Body leaves.
Less Harmony than his, did raise of Old
The Theban Wall, and made an Age of Gold.
How in that Mystick order cou'd he join
So different Notes! make Contraries combine,
And out of Discord, cull such Sounds Divine.
How did the Seeds ly quickning in his Brain!
How were they born without a Parent's Pain?
He did but Think, and Musick wou'd arise,
Dilating Joy, as Light o'erspreads the Skies;
From an Immortal Source, like that, it came;
But Light we know,—this Wonder wants a Name!
What art thou? From what Causes dost thou spring
O Musick! thou Divine Mysterious thing?
Let me but know, and knowing, give me Voice to Sing.
Art thou the warmth in Spring that Zephire breaths,
Painting the Meads, and whistling thro' the Leaves?
The happy Season that all Grief exiles,
When God is Pleas'd, and the Creation smiles?
Or ar't thou Love, that Mind to Mind imparts,
The endless Concord of agreeing Hearts?
Or ar't thou Friendship, yet a nobler Flame,
That can a dearer way make Souls the same?
Or ar't thou rather, which dos all transcend,
The Centre where at last the Blest ascend;
The Seat where Halelujah's never end?
Corporeal Eyes won't let us clearly view,
But either thou art Heav'n, or Heav'n is you!
And thou my Muse (how e'er the Criticks blame)
Pleas'd with his Worth, and faithful to his Fame,
Art Musick while y'are hallowing Purcell's Name.
On other Subjects you Applause might miss,
But Envy will it self be Charmd with this.
How oft has Envy at his Ayrs been found
T' admire, enchanted with the Blissful sound?
Ah! cou'd you quite forget his early Doom,
I wou'd not from the Rapture call you home:
But gently from your steepy height descend,
You've prais'd the Artist, and now mourn the Friend!
Ah most unworthy! shou'd we leave unsung
Such wondrous Goodness in a Life so young.
In spight of Practice, he this Truth has shown,
That Harmony and Vertue shou'd be one.
So true to Nature, and so just to Wit,
His Musick was the very Sense you Writ.
Nor were his Beauties to his Art confin'd;
So justly were his Soul and Body join'd,
You'd think his Form the Product of his Mind.
A Conqu'ring sweetness in his Vizage dwelt,
His Eyes wou'd warm, his Wit like Lightning melt,
But those no more must now be seen, and that no more be felt.
Pride was the sole aversion of his Eye,
Himself as Humble as his Art was High.
Ah! let him Heav'n (in Life so much ador'd)
Be now as universally Deplor'd!
The Muses Sigh'd at his approaching Doom,
Amaz'd and raving, as their own were come!
Art try'd the last Efforts, but cou'd not save—
But sleep, O sleep, in an unenvy'd Grave!
In Life and Death the noblest Fate you share;
Poets and Princes thy Companions are,
And both of 'em were thy Admirers here.
There rest thy Ashes—but thy nobler Name
Shall soar aloft, and last as long as Fame.
Nor shall thy Worth be to our Isle confin'd,
But flie and leave the lagging day behind.