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So is formed the mental channel
By the might of sight and sound,
So is tinged the moral current

By what eye and ear have found,--
Until, from its race of ages,

Rolling basely or sublime, It revealeth less our Adam Than the accidents of time.


Then, how few might be Earth's shadows
On the moral current here,

Where young Beauty chaseth Beauty
Through and through the ringing year!
Happy, happy, peer or peasant,

Whose it were to ever be

By the creamy, creeping border
Of this fair, mysterious sea---
Where these shoreward-stealing waters
Many-tinted fringes weave:

As their foamy flowers are scattered
By the wanton breeze of eve-
All his spirit gleaming sweetness
Through a wild and dewy eye,
From the broad and burning roses
On the golden isles of sky.


By the white wave eastward wending
From the Causeway's columned shore---
Gloom and glory round us blending,

Crag o'er crag to God ascending

From the wild-sea's whirling roar, Through five lingering leagues or more,-Fixed in lowly, holy bending,

Worship we as heretofore

By this altar huge and hoar,

Wonders wild, and far-extending,-
Darkly solemn self-defending,
With our inmost soul contending,-
'Tis thy forehead, blue Benmore!


Ah ye strangely warm and zealous
For the holy day of rest,

Say ye, also, when ye tell us

Of each scathing curse addressed

To the Seventh-day profaner,
Whether he, the stern abstainer
From all touch that might defile,

Were the loser or the gainer,

Were in Heaven's frown or smile, Should he shun the city's leaven

For a Sabbath on these sands, Where to wander is to worshipYea, to know the King of Heaven Through the glory of his hands?


I've adored the God of nature-
Yea, the universal Lord,
In the closet, at the altar,

On the sea, and on the sward;
And I stood beneath these pillars-
'Twas a Sabbath morn in May,
And I felt-ah! who can tell it?
Never, never lips of clay!
"Twas that heaving heart-devotion
That hath neither sigh nor pray'r,
But a swelling and a rushing
In the inmost spirit, where
Ten thousand springs were gushing
It had ne'er been dreamt were there
And the on and upward springing
Of a faint and dreamy ringing,
As if of the passions singing
Through each fibre of the brain,—
The battle-ground of many thoughts
That reeled and wheeled again;
Then seethed in rushing roll,
Like fire-drops through the soul,
With a wildly-winning pain;
Then a gazing up to heaven
Seeming less in life than death,
'Mid a quickening of the pulses,
And a shortening of the breath;

Then a bending towards the sod-
Sighing, "light enough is given---

Let us bow before our God!"
Oh! beneath the proudest altar
Consecrated to his name,-
Though I might have felt his presence,
I could ne'er have felt the same
As between those warring waters
Where our northern land is lost,
And that pillared pile, the glory
Of old Dalriada's coast.


There is grandeur in your city,
Where the sculptured columns soar,

And the sea of human beauty

Heaveth, heaveth evermore.

There is grandeur in yon mountain,
When beneath the burning West
Ten thousand tiny torches
At as many pearly porches

O'er that mountain's heathery breast
Flash and twinkle-flash and twinkle,
As the dying day-beams sprinkle

Their red life-drops o'er its crest.—--
O'er that showery, flowery crest;
While the rosy vapour, rising
Round the tomb of Light supernal,
Floats and tinges-floats and tinges
Feathery clouds with snowy fringes,
Till they meet the musing eye,

Like the locks of the Eternal

On that silvery waste of sky.

There is grandeur-there is grandeur
When the red sun disappears,
And the mourning face of heaven
Waxeth bright with starry tears.
Yea, above, below is grandeur,
When the dazzling day comes down,
Till each distant atom sparkles

Like some passing seraph's crown.
There is grandeur in the valley,
When along the shores of light
Floats a sea of twilight vapour,
Till the pine grove, tall and taper,
Wears the gloom of coming night;-
And the silent blast descendeth,
Swimming-skimming through the haze,
Till the tasselled grass-stalk bendeth
As if trodden by your gaze ;-
While across the ripening meadow
Fleeth shadow after shadow ;-
Gloomy spirits seem they passing,
O'er the sward their sadness tracing,
Where each unseen light-foot plays.
Oh there's beauty-oh! there's beauty,
Seek we, turn we where we will,-
But a vision haunts my spirit

Of sublimer beauty still.

Be it mine to live and listen,

Where the stormy echoes ring,

When the angel of the tempest

O'er these waters flaps his wing;

And the waves, like white-robed choristers,
Wild hallelujahs sing,-

Wild hallelujahs utter,

Or their deeper worship mutter
To the All, of all revered,
Underneath each kingly column

Stark and grizzled,

Of the stately, stern and solemn,
Huge and mystic, wild and weird,
Caverned, clouded, cleft and seared
Temple of the Form of wonder,
By the mystic sons of thunder

Amid storm and darkness reared.



"The most valuable collections of catches, rounds, and canons, for three or four voices, were cautiously circulated during the Protectorate; and deep in the retirement of many such a house as Woodstock the prayers for the Restoration and the practice of profane music, were kept up together."

"The merry monarch loved a tune, and small blame to him."-Quarterly Review.


Cavalier music! Shirley Chase,

Hidden deep amid oak-trees royal,
Is the noble home of a knightly race
Old as the oak-trees-proud and loyal.
Snow has fallen on the White King's bier-
Cromwell lords it, late and early,

But as yet his troopers come not here:

At home in his hall sits Sir Everard Shirley.


Moonlight pours through the painted oriels,
Firelight flickers on pictured walls;

Full of solemn and sad memorials

Is the room where that mingled glimmer falls.
There is the banner of Arthur Shirley,

Who died for CHARLES on a misty wold:

There is his portrait-an infant curly-
Whose corse in an unknown grave lies cold.


Hot and sudden swoop'd Rupert's horse
Down on the villanous Roundhead churls,
But they left young Arthur a mangled corse,
With the red mire clotting his chesnut curls :

Only son of an ancient race

As any that dwells in England's realm

Ah, a shadow sleeps on Sir Everard's face

When he thinks of his soldier's snow-plumed helm.

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