What hope for us remains now he is gone?
He, that knew all the pow'r of numbers, flown,
Alas! too soon; ev'n he,
Whose skilful harmony
Had charms for all the ills that we endure,
And could apply a certain cure;
From pointed griefs he'd take the pain away,
Ev'n ill nature did his lyre obey,
And in kind thoughts his artful hand repay.
His lays to anger and to war could move,
Then calm the tempest they had rais'd with love,
And with soft sounds to gentle thoughts incline,
No passion reign'd where he did not combine.

He knew such mystic touches that in death
Could cure the fear, or stop the parting breath;
And if to die had been his fear
Or life his care,
He with his lyre could call and unite
His spirits to the fight,
And vanquish Death in his own field of Night.

Pleas'd with some pow'rful Hallelujah, he,
Wrapp'd in the joys of his own harmony,
Sung on, and flew up to the Deity.