A light-broke in upon my brain,- But through-the crevice-where it came- tree,- I sometimes-deemed that it might be A kind of change-came in my fate; My brothers' graves-without a sod. I made a footing—in the wall,— It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one-and all Who loved me—in a human shape, And the whole earth-would-henceforth—be A wider prison unto me; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more upon the mountains high- I saw them, and they were the same, They were not changed-like me-in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow- The fish swam by the castle wall, At last-men came-to set us free, I asked not why, and recked not where, I learned to love despair. And thus, when they appeared-at last, In quiet-we had learned to dwell; MUSIC. Of music what shall be said? Some friend and enthusiast says: "Why, it is sound and harmony that please the senses and stir up pleasant emotions!" But, my friend, hear Lady Eastlake: "It is a strange thing, the subtle form and condition of music. When the composer has conceived it in his mind, the music itself is not there; when he has committed it to paper, it is still not there; when he has called together his orchestra and choristers from north and south, it is there-but gone again when they disperse. It has always, as it were, to put on mortality afresh. It is ever being born anew, but to die away, and leave only dead notes and dumb instruments behind." Is the exquisite presence, then, easily definable? We believe both music and poetry are spiritual essences which touch spiritual springs in our being, and that, though we feel and appreciate them, they are too ethereal for outward sense, and must forever be buried in the depths of emotion and sensation, only to be fully understood when this mind bursts its material bonds, and reaches up into the world where poetry and music must be living, visible presences. With this belief, have we not the evidence of the better life constantly within us? MUSIC OF THE OCEAN. "And the people of this place say that at certain seasons beautiful music is heard from the ocean."-Mavor's Voyages. Lonely-and wild-it rose, That strain of solemn music-from the sea, Again—a low, sweet tone,— (Fainting-in murmurs-on the listening day,) Once more-the gush of sound,— O boundless deep! we know Thou hast strange wonders—in thy gloom concealed, And an eternal spring Showers her rich colors-with unsparing hand, But tell,-O restless main! Who are the dwellers-in thy world beneath, Emblem-of glorious might! Are thy wild children-like thyself arrayed, Or-to mankind allied, Toiling with woe-and passion's fiery sting, Alas, for human thought! How does it flee existence,-worn—and old, 'Tis vain-the reckless waves Join with loud revel-the dim ages flown, MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. J. NEAL. There are harps that complain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone In a near and unchangeable tone Like winds full of sound that go whispering by, Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night, Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair On the clouds that unfold, Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night. But thick as the stars, all this music is made; In one sweet, dreamy tone, Are ever blown Forever and forever. The livelong night ye hear the sound, VOCAL MUSIC. In vocal music there is a union of music and language the language of affection and thought; which includes the whole man. Poetry and music are sister arts; their relationship being one of heaven-like intimacy. The essence of poetry consists in fine perceptions and vivid expressions of that subtle and mysterious analogy that exists between the physical and moral world; and it derives its power from the correspondence of natural things with spiritual. Its effect is to elevate the thoughts and affections toward a higher state of existence. THE MUSIC OF CHILDHOOD. JEAN INGELOW. When I hear the waters fretting, When I see the chestnut letting All her lovely blossoms falter down, I think, “Alas the day!” Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, That wakes no more while April hours wear themselves away. Sweet as air, and all beguiling: And there hung a mist of blue-bells on the slope and down the dell: That the years unborn would render, And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well, Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, April's here and summer's coming; Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy. When you step a graceful lady; For no fairer days have we to hope for, little girl and boy. "Laugh and play, O lisping waters, Lull our downy sons and daughters; Come, O wind, and rock thy leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy; With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry, little girl and boy.'" A LADY SINGING. PARSONS. Oft as my lady sang for me The song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea, For 't was made of old sadness that lives in my soul. So still grew my heart at each tender word |