Music's Tragedy

Had birds no season for their precious songs,

What would we call them but a common pest?

Since music's now a manufactured thing,

Potted and churned in every house we pass-

Think of the birds, how they more wisely sing.

That Paradise we dreamed of years ago,

When Music, rarely heard, was thought divine,

Is for the 'Damned', and not the 'Happy Blest';

Since, fed by force, with Music cheapened so-

Is there no quiet place to sleep or rest?