DEscend ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing Instruments inspire,
Wake into Voice each silent String,
And sweep the sounding Lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing Strain
Let the warbling Lute complain:
Let the loud Trumpet sound,
Till the Roofs all around
The shrill Ecchos rebound:
While in more lengthen'd Notes and slow,
The deep, majestick, solemn Organs blow.
Hark! the Numbers, soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the Ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading Sounds the Skies;
Exulting in Triumph now swell the bold Notes,
In broken Air, trembling, the wild Musick floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The Strains decay,
And melt away
In a dying, dying Fall.