On Our Late Taste in Music

----Quid vocis modulamen inane juvabatVerborum sensusque vacans numerique loquacis?

Britons! away with the degenerate pack!Waft, western winds! the foreign spoilers back!Enough has been in wild amusements spent,Let British verse and harmony content!No music once could charm you like your own,Then tuneful Robinson, and Tofts were known;Then Purcell touched the strings, while numbers hungAttentive to the sounds--and blest the song!E'en gentle Weldon taught us manly notes,Beyond the enervate thrills of Roman throats!Notes, foreign luxury could ne'er inspire,That animate the soul, and swell the lyre!That mend, and not emasculate our hearts,And teach the love of freedom and of arts.Nor yet, while guardian Phoebus gilds our isle,Does heaven averse await the muses' toil;Cherish but once our worth of native race,The sister-arts shall soon display their face!Even half discouraged through the gloom they strive,Smile at neglect, and o'er oblivion live.See Handel, careless of a foreign fame,Fix on our shore, and boast a Briton's name:While, placed marmoric in the vocal grove,He guides the measures listening throngs approve.Mark silence at the voice of Arne confess'd,Soft as the sweet enchantress rules the breast;As when transported Venice lent an ear,Camilla's charms to view, and accents hear!So while she varies the impassion'd song,Alternate motions on the bosom throng!As heavenly Milton guides her magic voice,And virtue thus convey'd allures the choice.Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue,The strain insipid, and the thought unknown;From truth and nature form the unerring test;Be what is manly, chaste, and good the best!'Tis not to ape the songsters of the groves,Through all the quiverings of their wanton loves;'Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or warbled shake,The heart can strengthen, or the soul awake!But where the force of energy is foundWhen the sense rises on the wings of sound;When reason, with the charms of music twined,Through the enraptured ear informs the mind;Bids generous love or soft compassion glow,And forms a tuneful Paradise below!Oh Britons! if the honour still you boast,No longer purchase follies at such cost!No longer let unmeaning sounds inviteTo visionary scenes of false delight:When, shame to sense! we see the hero's rageLisp'd on the tongue, and danced along the stage!Or hear in eunuch sounds a hero squeak,While kingdoms rise or fall upon a shake!Let them at home to slavery's painted train,With siren art, repeat the pleasing strain:While we, like wise Ulysses, close our earTo songs which liberty forbids to hear!Keep, guardian gales, the infectious guests away,To charm where priests direct, and slaves obey.Madrid, or wanton Rome, be their delight;There they may warble as their poets write.The temper of our isle, though cold, is clear;And such our genius, noble though severe.Our Shakespeare scorn'd the trifling rules of art,But knew to conquer and surprise the heart!In magic chains the captive thought to bind,And fathom all the depths of human kind!Too long, our shame, the prostituted herdOur sense have bubbled, and our wealth have shared.Too long the favourites of our vulgar greatHave bask'd in luxury, and lived in state!In Tuscan wilds now let them villas rearEnnobled by the charity we spare.There let them warble in the tainted breeze,Or sing like widow'd orphans to the trees:There let them chant their incoherent dreams,Where howls Charybdis, and where Scylla screams!Or where Avernus, from his darksome round,May echo to the winds the blasted sound!As fair Alcyone, with anguish press'd,Broods o'er the British main with tuneful breast,Beneath the white-brow'd cliff protected sings,Or skims the azure plain with painted wings!Grateful, like her, to nature, and as just,In our domestic blessings let us trust;Keep for our sons fair learning's honour'd prize,Till the world own the worth they now despise!