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Yea, the universal Lord,
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,
In the inmost spirit, where
It had ne'er been dreamt were there ;-
The battle-ground of many thoughts That reeled and wheeled again;
Then seethed in rushing roll,
Like fire-drops through the soul,
Seeming less in life than death,
Then a bending towards the sodSighing, “light enough is given--
Let us bow before our God !"
Consecrated to his name,-
I could ne'er have felt the same
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
Flash and twinkle--flash and twinkle,
As the dying day-beams sprinkle
While the rosy vapour, rising
Floats and tinges - Hoats and tinges
Till they meet the musing eye,
Op 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,
As if trodden by your gaze;
Where each unseen light-foot plays.
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, -
O'er these waters flaps his wing ;
Wild hallelujahs sing,--
To the All, of all revered,
Stark and grizzled,
Huge and mystic, wild and weird,
Caverned, clouded, cleft and seared
MUSIC AT SHIRLEY CHASE.
BY MORTIMER COLLINS.
“ 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 bouse as Woodstock the prayers for the Restoration and the practice of profano music, were kept up together."
“ The merry monarch loved a tune, and small blame to him."-Quarterly Reriece.
Cavalier music! Shirley Chase,
Hidden deep amid oak-trees royal,
Old as the oak-trees-proud and loyal.
Cromwell lords it, late and early,
At home in his hall sits Sir Everard Shirley.
Moonlight pours through the painted oriels,
Firelight flickers on pictured walls ;
Is the room where that mingled glimmer falls.
Who died for CHARLES on a misty wold :
Whose corse in an unknown grave lies cold.
Hot and sudden swoop'd Rupert's horse
Down on the villanous Roundhead churls,
With the red mire clotting his chesnut curls :
As any that dwells in England's realm-
When he thinks of his soldier's snow-plumed helm.
Under the moon on the cool sea shore
Under the moon by the dusty road
ALL young men conscious of possessing or who think they possess talents above mediocrity are ambitious; but only a few-a very few-succeed in realizing their youthful aspirations. To most of them the gates of advancement refuse to turn on their golden hinges. Of the rest, the majority, if they do get an entrance, are so soured by the repeated refusals of the churlish porter whom men call Fate or Luck, that they have no spirit remaining to enjoy those Elysian plains which they had so often dreamed of; or having lost zest for the pomp of those marble halls, the revels of which they so often longed to enjoy, though the gate be open, they do not wish to enter, and prefer setting up their tabernacle outside the adamantine walls. But there are still in all ages, a few who rise to the summit
of their most extravagant hopes, who even win an entrance before the chills of age have deprived them of the power of enjoyment, or who, carrying the zest of youth with them throughout life, strive as eagerly and enjoy as keenly in the frosts of December as amidst the
soms of May, What is it that distinguishes those favorites of nature from the rest of her children? What is the secret of that fascination before which even the powers of nature seem to yield ? We speak not of those who are born with the silver spoon, who have been brought up in the marble palaces, and have sported as children in the Elysian fields, but of the few among the outer tenants, the cottars and squatters of the great common,
who force their entrance into the palace grounds. There can be no mistake as
* Contributions to the Edinburgh Review, by Henry, Lord Brougham, F.R.S., Member of the National Institute of France, and of the Royal Academy of Naples. In 3 vols. London and Glasgow : Richard Griffin and Co Publishers to the University of Glasgow, 1856.