The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead!
Then cold and hot and moist and dry In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell, His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms,
The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat.
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame.
But O, what art can teach, What human voice can reach, The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race; And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre;
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared
Mistaking earth for heaven.
As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move,
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! Who centred in our make such strange extremes, From different natures marvellously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonored, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite!
A worm! a God! - I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! O, what a miracle to man is man!
Triumphantly distressed! What joy! what dread! Alternately transported and alarmed!
What can preserve my life? or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't confine me there.
Man's home is everywhere. On ocean's flood, Where the strong ship with storm-defying tether Doth link in stormy brotherhood Earth's utmost zones together, Where'er the red gold glows, the spice-trees wave, Where the rich diamond ripens, mid the flame Of vertic suns that ope the stranger's grave, He with bronzed cheek and daring step doth
He with short pang and slight Doth turn him from the checkered light Of the fair moon through his own forests dancing, Where music, joy, and love
Were his young hours entrancing; And where ambition's thunder-claim Points out his lot,
Or fitful wealth allures to roam, There doth he make his home, Repining not.
But, lovely child! thy magic stole At once into my inmost soul, With feelings as thy beauty fair, And left no other vision there.
To me thy parents are unknown; Glad would they be their child to own! And well they must have loved before, If since thy birth they loved not more. Thou art a branch of noble stem, And seeing thee I figure them. What many a childless one would give, If thou in their still home wouldst live, Though in thy face no family-line Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine"! In time thou wouldst become the same As their own child, — all but the name!
TO A SLEEPING CHILD. ART thou a thing of mortal birth Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost mid a gleam of golden hair? O, can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death? Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent?
Or art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blesséd dream?
A human shape I feel thou art I feel it at my beating heart,
Those tremors both of soul and sense Awoke by infant innocence ! Though dear the forms by fancy wove, We love them with a transient love; Thoughts from the living world intrude Even on our deepest solitude;
THE wind blew wide the casement, and within - It was the loveliest picture! a sweet child Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, In pauses, from the fountain, - the white round Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower, Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:- And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, Looked archly on its world, - the little imp,
As if it knew even then that such a wreath Were not for all; and with its playful hands It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring The sunlight after. They were tears of joy; And the true heart of that young mother then Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously The silliest ballad-song that ever yet Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.
FRAGMENT FROM "FANNY."
BUT Fortune, like some others of her sex, Delights in tantalizing and tormenting.
The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest;
'T WAS whispered in heaven, and muttered in hell,
The leaves of Autumn smile when fading fast; And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; The swan's last song is sweetest.
On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'T was seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder;
'T will be found in the spheres, when riven
'T was given to man with his earliest breath, Assists at his birth, and attends him in death; Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, And though unassuming, with monarchs is crowned.
In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir. Without it the soldier and sailor may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. It softens the heart; and, though deaf to the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, O, breathe on it softly; it dies in an hour.
THE GIFTS OF GOD.
WHEN God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, Let us (said he) pour on him all we can : Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie, Contract into a span.
FATHER LAND AND MOTHER TONGUE
OUR Father Land! and wouldst thou know Why we should call it Father Land?
It is that Adam here below
Was made of earth by Nature's hand.
Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof,
A dreamer dropped a random thought; 't was As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the
old, and yet 't was new;
A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being
It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.
And another comes to thrill me with her eyes'
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all
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