Classic Poem

So, was that Stranger charm'd,
Who first did Musick hear,
With such a new Soul warm'd,
Which wandred , in his Ear ;
Lost thus, in the Excess
Of his new Happiness .

So did that Captive look,
Whom soft Sounds then subdu'd ,
With pleasing wonder strook,
So joy'd , and pain'd he shew'd:
Since some Death seems to be
In ev'ry Extasie .

Though th' Art , be common grown,
Such Excellence is new ;
Long since , though that was known ,
We wonder still, at you ,
Who, with sweet force surprize,
And gently tyrannize.

New Pleasures influence
Each Pore , which they steal through,
And op'ning some new Sense ,
Fill , and possess it too:
Pleasures, n'ere felt before,
Still enter some new Door .

Bare Musick , is but Noise ,
And not so sweet , as fierce ,
Something in your soft Voice ,
Diviner is, then Verse ;
Which Musick is alone,
E're it be set to Tune .

Why fly you thus the Throng ?
Like Orpheus , in the Wood ,
Repairing with your Song ,
To honour Solitude ;
Where no Ear can pursue
The Sound , nor no Eye , You .

Would you by this persuade,
That Miracles are wrought,
And still frequent the Shade ,
Where, Musick first was taught ?
That such deaf things , as Trees ,
Must be your Witnesses .

Or that, your Voice Divine
These Walls seem loth to lose ,
And willing to confine ,
Permit not to diffuse;
But practising , still learn
In Eccho 's, to return.