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 0, 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.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blessed above;

So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky.

JOHN DRYDEN.

MAN.

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!

MAN-WOMAN.

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.

DR. EDWARD YOUNG.

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

rove;

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.

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 blessed 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;

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 !

MOTHER AND CHILD.

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,
the white round
In pauses, from the fountain,
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark,
Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm
Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,
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.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

JOHN WILSON.

One day we feed upon their smiles, the next

So strength first made a way;

Eve never walked in Paradise more pure

Than on that morn when Satan played the devil With her and all her race. A lovesick wooer

Ne'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil, Than Cleopatra was to Antony

The day she left him on the Ionian sea.

The serpent-loveliest in his coiléd ring,

With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies The tints of the rainbow-bears upon his sting The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath Are tropic winds before the voice of death

Is heard upon the waters, summoning

The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years To do its task of woe. The clouds that fling The lightning brighten ere the bolt appears; The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud Upon that battle-morn whose night-dews wet his

shroud ;

The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest;

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

asunder;

Assists at his birth, and attends him in death;
'T was given to man with his earliest breath,
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.

MISS FANSHAWE.

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.