Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MICHAELMASSE, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT

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MICHAELMASSE, by            
First Line: What though our languid songs cannot aspire
Last Line: And our sad groans, to your sweet tunes aspire.
Subject(s): Mass; Trinity, The

WHAT though our languid Songs cannot aspire
(Justly termd AIRES, because they reach no higher)
Yours Noble Spirits, make large supply,
Whose loftie Key
Doth well agree
With Him, whose Name you eccho, the MOST HIGH.

In your mysterious Consorts Unitie
For ever sounds, whose gallant praise
As you chant there
All Heavn you chear
And make it, & its Stars dance roundelays.

Whither some Seraphik, or Cherubik Throats
Lead up ye ravishing Verse in Single Notes,
Before ye full Quire thunders in:
Or whither all
Together fall
Upon ye Song, the Musik still doth win,

It wins ye ear, & wins ye favour too
Of Him, whom all your loud TRISAGUIMS doe
Strive to extoll: HE all things made
That Prayses they
To Him might pay,
And best likes those, who follow best their Trade.

Close doe you follow it, while ravishd by
Your owne exstatic Notes, your Soules doe flie
Along wth them, untill they beat
Strongly upon
Gods Mighty Throne
And so rebound againe unto their Seat.

By this sweet intercourse your Hearts doe goe
In glorious pleasure trading to & fro:
And whilst a veil forbids your Eye
Your liscense'd Toungs
By their free Songs
Carry you close unto ye Deitie.

O happy Yee, whose undisturbed Quire
Can be as lasting as your owne Desire,
And fears not to be silence'd by
Mischeivous Zeale
Or ever feele
A Reformation by Impietie.

Sing on Sweet Spirits, & pay our common King
What We, alas, can onely wish to bring.
Yet if We ever doe arrive
(As We desire)
At your great Quire
Wee'l take our Parts, & sing as long's We live.

For many a Place We know there vacant is,
Since your false Brethern Sung their Parts amisse
And made flat Discord in ye Song.
The fault was great,
And They unfit
Unto ye Quire of Angels to belong.

Let them & their untuned Genius dwell
Deep in ye correspondent Jarrs of Hell:
But Heavn forbid that your fair Quire
Imperfect be;
Rather may we,
And our sad Groans, to your sweet Tunes aspire.

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