When doors, with many a sturdy stroke,
Fly from their bolts, to shivers broke,
And captive beauty yields, but is not won.
Down with the Phrygian pipe's discordant sound!
Crackle, ye flames! and burn the monster foul
To very ashes—in whose notes are found
Nought but what's harsh and flat,—no music for the soul,—
The work of some vile handicraft. To thee,
Great Dithyrambus! ivy-tressèd king!
I stretch my hand—'tis here—and rapidly