Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/258

248 Each pulse beats time, and every heart With tongue and fingers bears a part. By harmony's entrancing power, When we are thus wound up to ecstasy, Methinks we mount, methinks we tower, And seem to antedate our future bliss on high. How dull were life, how hardly worth our care, But for the charm that music lends! How faint its pleasures would appear, But for the pleasure which our art attends! Without the sweets of melody, To tune our vital breath, Who would not give it up to death, And in the silent grave contented lie? Music's the cordial of a troubled breast, The softest remedy that grief can find; The gentle spell that charms our care to rest, And calms the ruffled passions of the mind. Music does all our joy refine, It gives the relish to our wine, 'Tis that gives rapture to our love, And wings devotion to a pitch divine; 'Tis our chief bliss on earth, and half our heaven above. Come then, with tuneful throat and string The praises of our art let's sing; Let's sing to blest Cecilia's fame, That graced this art, and gave this day its name; With music, wine, and mirth conspire To bear a concert, and make up the choir.