Late Servant to his Majesty, and Organist of the Chapel Royal, and of St. Peter's Westminster <br /> <br />I <br /> <br />Mark how the Lark and Linnet Sing, <br />With rival Notes <br />They strain their warbling Throats, <br />To welcome in the Spring. <br />But in the close of Night, <br />When Philomel begins her Heav'nly lay, <br />They cease their mutual spite, <br />Drink in her Music with delight, <br />And list'ning and silent, and silent and list'ning, <br />And list'ning and silent obey. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />So ceas'd the rival Crew when Purcell came, <br />They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame. <br />Struck dumb they all admir'd the God-like Man, <br />The God-like Man, <br />Alas, too soon retir'd, <br />As He too late began. <br />We beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore, <br />Had He been there, <br />Their Sovereign's fear <br />Had sent Him back before. <br />The pow'r of Harmony too well they know, <br />He long e'er this had Tun'd their jarring Sphere, <br />And left no Hell below. <br /> <br />III <br /> <br />The Heav'nly Choir, who heard his Notes from high, <br />Let down the Scale of Music from the Sky: <br />They handed him along, <br />And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung. <br />Ye Brethren of the Lyre, and tuneful Voice, <br />Lament his Lot: but at your own rejoice. <br />Now live secure and linger out your days, <br />The Gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's Lays, <br />Nor know to mend their Choice.<br /><br />John Dryden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-ode-on-the-death-of-mr-henry-purcell/
