Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;
    The breathing instruments inspire,
  Wake into voice each silent string,
    And sweep the sounding lyre;
    In a sadly-pleasing strain
    Let the warbling lute complain:
      Let the loud trumpet sound,
      Till the roofs all around
      The shrill echoes rebound:
  While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,
  The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
      Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
      Gently steal upon the ear;
      Now louder, and yet louder rise,
      And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
  Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
  In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
      Till, by degrees, remote and small,
        The strains decay,
        And melt away,
      In a dying, dying fall.