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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 oh! 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,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the blest 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.

J. Dryden.

COV.

THE SAILOR'S SONG.

THE sea! the sea ! the open sea !

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea !
I am where I would ever be ;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I

go ;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, O how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whi-tles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou’west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was and is to me;
For I was born on the open sea !

The wares were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born ;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child !

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought nor sighed for change ;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! 3. W. Proctor,

CCVI.

NAPOLEON.

HT

IS falchion flashed along the Nile ;

His hosts he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,

His eagle flag unrolled, - and froze. .

Here sleeps he now,

alone! Not one Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust; nor wife, nor son,

Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind this sea-girt rock, the star

That led him on from crown to crown, Has sunk; and nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his couch ; the ocean flood,

Far, far below, by storms is curled ;
As round him heaved, while high he stood,

A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud

That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.

Pause here! The far-off world, at last,

Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast,

Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! comes there, from the pyramids,

And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids

The world he awed to mourn him ? No.

The only, the perpetual dirge

That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry, —
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

J. Pierponto

CCVII.

WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL.

STAND! the ground's your own, my braves !

Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will

ye

look for greener graves ?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel ?
Hear it in that battle peal !
Read it on yon bristling steel !
Ask it

- ye who will.

Fear ye

foes who kill for hire ? Will ye to your homes retire ?

[blocks in formation]

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. For his

gayer

hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice :- – Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more

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