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               Music religious heats inspires,

                   It wakes the soul, and lifts it high,

               And wings it with sublime desires,

                   And fits it to bespeak the Deity.

               The Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue,

               And seems well-pleased and courted with a song.

        Soft moving sounds and heavenly airs

        Give force to every word, and recommend our prayers.

               When time itself shall be no more,

        And all things in confusion hurled,

               Music shall then exert its power,

        And sound survive the ruins of the world:

               Then saints and angels shall agree

               In one eternal jubilee:

        All heaven shall echo with their hymns divine,

               And God himself with pleasure see

        The whole creation in a chorus join.

                   Consecrate the place and day,

                   To music and Cecilia.

               Let no rough winds approach, nor dare

                  Invade the hallowed bounds,

               Nor rudely shake the tuneful air,

                  Nor spoil the fleeting sounds.

               Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard,

                  But gladness dwell on every tongue;

               Whilst all, with voice and strings prepared,

                  Keep up the loud harmonious song,

                     And imitate the blest above,

                     In joy, and harmony, and love.

        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

        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

        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:

                '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.

        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,

        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.

        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.

        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

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