Batchelor of Music

Instant the mortal stroke the warbler smote! Eternal silence seals the tuneful throat! Ah, NORRIS, thine! whom Albion heard so long Pour in impressive tones the hallow’d song, With all thy HANDEL’S glorious page inspires, Pathos that melts, and energy that fires.

High o’er the numerous band we saw him late, Saw choirs combin’d his graceful mandate wait; And heard the too, too applicable lay His drooping spirit’s mild complaint convey Of that injurious, that ungrateful sound, Which the shock’d ear with ruthless force could wound, For that his trembling nerves, oppress’d with pain, Whelm’d in resistless tears one tender strain.

Oh, when that powerful voice, in peals of praise, Led the loud chorus through the harmonic maze, Breath’d the pathetic song, that on the breast Religious awe, and contrite grief imprest, How little we divin’d, who heard ere while His full notes floating through the vaulted aisle, That death’s dark clouds around the minstrel hung, That the sweet Swan his own sad requiem sung!