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FRANCIS HOPKINSON

(1737-1791)

(The text is taken from "The Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq., Vol. III, 1792.)

ODE ON MUSIC

Hark! hark! the sweet vibrating lyre
Sets my attentive soul on fire;
Thro' all my frame with pleasures thrill
Whilst the loud treble warbles shrill,
And the more slow and solemn bass
Adds charm to charm and grace to grace.

Sometimes in sweetly languid strains
The guilty trembling string complains:
How it delights my ravished ear
When the expiring notes I hear
Vanish distant and decay!—
They steal my yielding soul away.

Neatly trip the merry dance, And lightly touch and swiftly glance; Let boundless transport laugh aloud Sounds madly ramble mix and crowd, Till all in one loud rapture rise, Spread thro' the air and reach the skies.

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But when you touch the solemn air, Oh! swell each note distinct and clear; 20 In ev'ry strain let sorrow sigh, Languish soft and sweetly die.

So shall th' admir'd celestial art, Raise and transport my ravish'd heart; Exalt my soul, and give my mind Ideas of sublimer kind.

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So great the bliss it seems to prove
There must be music too above,
That from the trumpets silver sound
Of wing'd arch-angels plac'd around
Thy burning throne-Oh! king of Heaven!
Most perfect harmony is giv'n:
Whilst happy saints in concert join
To make the music more divine,
And with immortal voices sing
HOSANNAHS to their glorious KING.
SONG
I

Beauty and merit now are join'd,
An angel's form, an angel's mind

Are sweetly met in thee;
Thy soul, which all the virtues grace,
Shines forth with lustre in thy face,
From affectation free.

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Inscribed to the officers of the 35th regiment on their embarkation for the expedition against Louisbourg1

Now warmer suns, once more bid nature smile,

The new-born spring, peeps from the teaming soil:

From ice the streams, the fields from snow are free,

And blossoms swell on every pregnant tree: The softened season melts in sudden show'rs,

And April all her flow'ry treasures pours; Well might I sing the early warbling lay Of rural songsters at the dawn of day; The riv'let winding thro' the long drawn vale,

The new cloth'd mountain, the green tufted dale;

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Or shepherd's pipe, that in melodious

strains,

Welcomes the spring to valleys, hills and plains.

But these I leave, and for the aspiring

muse,

A nobler theme, a loftier subject choose. This is the season whose warm rays in

spire,

Heroic bosoms with a martial fire:

To war's alarms all softer pleasures yield, And ev'ry Briton burns to take the field. The drums loud beat, the fire's shrill soaring lay.

1 Louisbourg had an interesting history in the border contests between the French and English in the first half of the 18th century. This strong fortress on Cape Breton Island was captured from the French by New England troops in 1745 and surrendered to France by the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748. The expedition mentioned in the two poems of Hopkinson left in the spring of 1758 under Lord Amherst. The siege lasted from June 8 to July 26. The town was demolished, and the fortress badly breached.

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TO CELIA

On her wedding day

Whilst Heav'n with kind propitious ray,
Smiles, Celia, on thy nuptial day,
And ev'ry sympathising breast
With transport glows to see thee blest;
Whilst present joys the hours beguile,
And future prospects seem to smile.
Shall not my muse her tribute bring
And gladly touch the trembling string?
I know 'tis usual at such times
To pay respect in pompous rhymes;
To bid the whole celestial race
With brightest glories fill the place,
And from their mansions hasten down
The nuptial rites with bliss to crown:
As if each goddess might be said
To be the poet's waiting maid:
But I who have no power at all,
Such high divinities to call,
Must lay those stratagems aside
And with plain fable treat the bride.

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20

30

As Cupid thro' the azure way
Did late with wand'ring pinion stray,
The little urchin chanc'd to spy;
His master Hymen passing by;
Surpris'd with conscious guilt and shame,
Knowing his conduct much to blame,
With nimble haste he strove to shroud
His presence in a fleecy cloud.
But Hymen saw, nor could he fail
To see a wing-oh! piteous tale!
Peep from behind the misty veil.
Th' observing god with eager joy,
Rush'd on and seiz'd th' affrighted boy.-
"Well, master Cupid, are you caught
At last, he cry'd, I almost thought
You, far from hence, had taken flight,
And quite forsook the realms of light;
For whereso'er I choose to stray,
I seldom meet you in my way.-
Wherefore so shy? since well you know 40
It is not very long ago

Since Jove in council did decree,
Yourself and services to me;
That it might ever be your care,

To warm those breasts whom I would pair

With mutual love, and bless my bonds,
By mingling hearts with joining hands.
Instead of which, you rambling go,
And sad confusions make below:
Whilst my softest bondage often falls, 50
Where custom points or int'rest calls.
But Jove himself shall quickly hear,
How much his dictates you revere;
Yet e'er we part, 'tis my desire,

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You kindle love's celestial fire
In the fair Celia's peaceful breast,
And make her am'rous Strephon blest."
With piteous tone, and tear-full eye,
Thus did the little god reply:
"This, Hymen, this I must deny,
Do any other service choose,
There's nought but this I can refuse;
I have my word and honour giv'n,
And firmly sworn by earth and Heav'n,
That love shall Celia ne'er molest,
No dart of mine e'er wound her breast."
Hymen, first made an angry pause,
Then spake "Thou traitor to my cause!
Is't thus with mortals you conspire,
To break my torch and quench my fire; 70
I oft have wonder'd why that maid
My soft encircling bands delay'd;
The wonder ceases now; I find
That you and Celia have combin'd,
My pow'r celestial to dispise
And rob me of my fairest prize.
But Celia soon in wedlock's chain
Shall shine the fairest of my train:
Virtue her days with peace shall crown,
And I will show'r my blessings down; 80
Her happy state shall others move,
To seek the joys of weded love."
Much would the weeping boy have said;
But Hymen urg'd, and love obey'd:
A shaft he chose from out the rest,
And sunk it deep in Celia's breast.
Soft thro' her frame the poison crept;
And Hymen laugh'd and Cupid wept.
Then upwards, far from human fight,
They wing'd their way in speedy flight, 90
Wrapt in a glorious blaze of light.

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With pois'nous sting he strove to wound The substance firm: but strove in vain; Surpris'd he sees it stands its ground, Nor starts thro' fear, nor writhes with pain.

Away th' enraged insect flew;

But soon with aggravated pow'r, Against the walls his body threw, And hop'd to shake the lofty tow'r.

Firm fix'd it stands; as stand it must,

Nor heeds the wasp's unpitied fal: 30
The humbled critic rolls in dust,
So stunn'd, so bruis'd, he scarce can
crawl.

POLITICAL BALLADS
DATE OBOLUM BELLESARIO 1
Written in the year 1777

As I travell'd o'er the plain,
About the close of day,

I chanc'd to wander in a lane,
A lane of mire and clay.

'Twas there a dirty drab I saw,

All seated on the ground,
With oaken staff and hat of straw,
And tatters hanging round.

At my approach she heav'd a sigh,
And due obeisance paid,
First wip'd a tear from either eye,
Then her petition made.

"A wretch forlorn, kind sir, you see,
That begs from door to door;
Oh! stop and give for charity,
A penny to the poor!

"Tho' now in tatters I appear,

ΙΟ

Yet know the time hath been,
When I partook the world's good cheer,
And better days have seen.'

Proceed, said I, whilst I attend
The story of thy woe;

Proceed, and charity shall lend
Some help before I go.

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1 Written after the defeat of Burgoyne in October, 1777.

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