Hark, Damon, hark!
Purcell, Henry
Hark, Damon, hark! what music's this I hear?
Gods! what melodious noise invades my ear?
The flocks are wonder-struck; birds, as they fly,
Ravish'd with these sweet strains fall down and die.
Mark how from yonder hill it does rebound!
Hark how the fainting echoes all around,
Charm'd with delight, repeat the pleasing sound.
Orpheus perhaps is from the shades below
Return'd, and strikes his lyre to let us know
That since he play'd upon Parnassus' hill
He has improv'd his fancy and his skill.
Come, shepherds, come, his pipe let each one take,
And try what kind of music we can make.
I'll warrant you, boys, we play louder than he:
Though our pipes may but jar, yet our humours agree,
And Orpheus himself's not so merry as we.