Classic Poem

Say Music, sweetest Child of Jove ,
Parent of Pity, Mirth, and Love,
Our Passions how dost thou controul;
Tune high to Joy, or low depress the Soul?
Whence flows this universal Charm,
That can Despair itself disarm?
Is not the mighty Magic first design'd
In the bold Bard's capacious Mind?
There the gay Train of Embrio Hints are found;
Thence they dance forth, embody'd round
In regular Variety of Sound.
Concording Souls the Notes imbibe,
And to ungovern'd Fancy Laws prescribe:
Adapting Harmony to Use,
By Rules which they from Harmony deduce.
Thus while the Sons of Asaph play'd and sung,
To David 's Muse their Harps were strung:
They but the Paths he mark'd 'em trod;
He, the great Prophet of th' inspiring God.