Mar 9
AN
EPISTLE
TO
Mr. HANDEL,
UPON HIS
OPERAS
OF
FLAVIUS and JULIUS CAESAR.
[line]
Orpheus in Sylvis, inter Delphinas Arion.
VIRG. Ecl. 8.
Hear how Timotheus’
various Lays surprize,
And bid alternate Passions fall and rise.
POPE.
[double line]
LONDON:
Printed for J. Roberts, near the Oxford Arms in Warwick-Lane. 1724.
[Price 4 d.]
[page]
[woodcut]
AN
EPISTLE
TO
Mr. HANDEL.
|
CRown’d by the gen’ral Voice, at last you shew The utmost Length that Musick’s Force can go: What Pow’r on Earth, but Harmony like Thine, Cou’d Britain’s jarring Sons e’er hope to join? Like Musick’s diff’ring Sounds we all agree, Form’d by thy skilful Hand to Harmony: Our Souls so tun’d, that Discord grieves to find A whole fantastick Audience of a Mind: The Deaf have found their Ears, — their Eyes the Blind. [2] Some little Rebels to thy mighty Name, Deny the Crown due justly to your Fame; No Sons of Phoebus, but a spurious Breed, Who suck bad Air, and on thin Diet feed; Each puny Stomach loaths, and ill digests The labour’d Greatness of thy finish’d Feasts: Notes that the Passions move they can’t admire, But love, — and rage, — and rave, — with sober Fire; Supine in downy Indolence they doze, Whilst Poppy-Strains their drowsy Eye-lids close, And soothing Whispers lull ’em to repose. Since this lethargick Tribe you’ve overcome, Let them beware the stupid Midas’ Doom; Who Pan’s shrill Pipe t’ Apollo’s Lyre prefers, For’s Judgment justly wears the Ass’s Ears. To please this vitious Taste, what Arts were try’d? Our Beaus have scolded, and our Belles have cry’d, And famous Op’ras reign’d their Day, — and dy’d: Tho’ crowded Theatres your Numbers grac’d, To sooth the tastless Few, you were displac’d; Pleasure too exquisite ’cause we enjoy’d, Some eminent old Women they imploy’d; Whose fine-spun Notes, like Musick of the Spheres, Quite out of reach, were lost to mortal Ears. [3] Amusements less polite the Town will charm, We want some Crowd, — and Sounds, — to keep us warm; In Place of promis’d Heaps of glitt’ring Gold, The good Academy got nought — but Cold. Where cou’d they fly for Succour, but to You? Whose Musick’s ever Good, and ever New. All were o’er-joy’d to see Thee thus restor’d, And Musick’s Empire own its lawful Lord; In Extacies divine we all were wrapt, And Foes to Musick wonder’d why they clapt; Spite of themselves th’ Insensibles were charm’d, And Sounds victorious, Envy’s Rage disarm’d. Thus when the Sun withdraws his golden Rays, Nor longer o’er the World his Light displays; The pale-fac’d Moon triumphant rules the Night, Proud of her Silver Beams, and borrow’d Light; Pleas’d with her Throne, she faintly mimicks Day, Whilst each small Star darts forth its twinkling Ray: But when the ruddy Morn restores the Sun, Bright in his glorious Blaze his Course to run; Then Moon and Stars superior Lustre fly, And dimm’d by brighter Beams, inglorious lie. |
FINIS.[1]