Prepare the hallowed strain, my Muse, Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbers choose; The bright Cecilia's praise rehearse, In warbling words, and gliding verse, That smoothly run into a song, And gently die away, and melt upon the tongue. First let the sprightly violin The joyful melody begin, And none of all her strings be mute; While the sharp sound and shriller lay _10 In sweet harmonious notes decay, Softened and mellowed by the flute. 'The flute that sweetly can complain, Dissolve the frozen nymph's disdain; Panting sympathy impart, Till she partake her lover's smart.'[4] 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: _20 '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. _30 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, _40 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. _50 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. _60 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.