Classic Poem

Come, oh come in pious Laies,
Sound we God-Almighti's praise.
Hither bring in one Consent,
Heart, and Voice, and Instrument.
Musick adde of ev'ry kinde;
Sound the Trump, the Cornet winde.
Strike the Violl, touch the Lute.
Let nor Tounge, nor String be mute:
Not a Creature dumb be found,
That hath either Voice or Sound.

Let those Things which do not live
In Still-Musick, praises give.
Lowly pipe, ye Wormes that creep,
On the Earth, or in the Deep.
Loud-aloft, your Voices strain,
Beasts, and Monsters of the Main.
Birds, your warbling Treble sing.
Clouds, your Peales of Thunders ring.
Sun and Moon, exalted higher,
And bright Stars, augment this Quire.

Come ye Sons of Humane-Race,
In this Chorus take a place;
And, amid the mortall-Throng,
Be you Masters of the Song.
Angels, and supernall Powr's,
Be the noblest Tenor yours.
Let in praise of God, the sound
Run a never-ending Round;
That our Song of praise may be
Everlasting as is HE.

From Earths vast and hollow wombe,
Musicks deepest Base may come.
Seas and Flouds, from shore to shoare,
Shall their Counter-Tenors roare.
To this Consort, (when we sing)
Whistling Winds your Descants bring.
That our Song may over clime,
All the Bounds of Place and Time,
And ascend from Sphere to Sphere,
To the great All-mightie's eare.

So, from Heaven, on Earth, he shall
Let his gracious Blessings fall:
And this huge wide Orbe, we see
Shall one Quire, one Temple be;
Where, in such a Praise, full Tone
We will sing, what he hath done,
That the cursed Fiends below,
Shall thereat impatient grow.
Then, oh Come, in pious Laies,
Sound we God-Almighties praise.