CVI.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time, Producing subjects worthy fame.

In happy climes, where from the genial

sun

And virgin earth such scenes ensue, The force of Art by Nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true;

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,

Where Nature guides and Virtue rules, Where men shall not impose for truth and

sense

The pedantry of courts and schools;
There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her
clay,

By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;

The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day; Time's noblest offspring is the last.

goat,

And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,

From the deep, cool bed of the river. The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sate the great god Pan,

While turbidly flow'd the river,

And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed,

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith like the heart of a
man,

Steadily from the outside ring,
Then notch'd the poor dry empty thing
In holes as he sate by the river.

"This is the way," laugh'd the great god

Pan

(Laugh'd while he sate by the river), "The only way since gods began

To make sweet music, they could succeed.” Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,

He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan,

Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die,

And the lilies revived, and the dragon fly Came back to dream on the river.

CHORUS.

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal

to destroy;

Thais led the way

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another

Troy.

VII.

Thus, long ago—

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute-
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies-
She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS.

At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred

store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies-
She drew an angel down.

JOHN DRYDEN.

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

I.

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began. When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay,

The master saw the madness rise-
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he Heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,
Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen-
Fallen from his high estate,

And welt'ring in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor

sate

Revolving in his alter'd soul

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,

The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

CHORUS.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.

At length, with love and wine at once op press'd,

The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

VI.

low;

And, now and then, a sigh he stole ;

And tears began to flow.

CHORUS.

Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance be

low;

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of
thunder.

Hark, hark! the horrid sound

Has raised up his head!

As awaked from the dead,
And amazed, he stares around.

And tears began to flow.

V.

The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honor but an empty bubble

Never ending, still beginningFighting still, and still destroying;

If the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying!

Lovely Thais sits beside thee— Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the sky with loud applause;

So Love was crown'd, but Music won the

cause.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

See the Furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

And unburied remain,
Inglorious, on the plain!
Give the vengeance due
To the gallant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile
gods!

The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute-
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies-
She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS.

At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred

store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies-
She drew an angel down.

JOHN DRYDEN.

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

I.

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began.
When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,

And could 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 chorded shell

His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, 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 clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat
Of the thundering 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.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair, disdainful dame.