Now 'twas a honey-throated nightingale,
And now a sigh, a soul in agony,

A troubled dead-march with melodious wail,
A fall of tears then it came daintily,
Like the perfumèd air that smote the sail
Of Cleopatra's golden barge, when she
Sailed down to Tarsus to Mark Antony.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore.

WOINOMOINEN'S MUSIC

(Finnish. Anonymous)

Then the ancient Woinomoinen
On the bench himself he seated;
Took the harp betwixt his fingers;
On his knee about he turned it,
In his hand he fitly placed it.
Play'd the ancient Woinomoinen,
Universal joy awaking.

Like a concert was his playing:
There was nothing in the forest,
On four nimble feet that runneth,
On four lengthy legs that stalketh,
But repair'd to hear the music
When the ancient Woinomoinen,
When the Father joy awaken'd;
Even, at Woinomoinen's harping,
'Gainst the hedge the bear upbounded.
There was nothing in the forest,
On two whirling pinions flying,

But with whirlwind speed did hasten;

There was nothing in the ocean,
With six fins about that roweth,
Or with eight to move delighteth,
But repair'd to hear the music;
Even the briny water's mother

'Gainst the beach breast-forward cast her,
On a little sand-hill raised her,
On her side with tail upcrawling.
Even from Woinomoinen's eyeballs
Tears of heartfelt pleasure trickled,
Bigger than the whortleberry,
Heavier than the eggs of plovers,
Down his broad and mighty bosom,
Kneeward from his bosom flowing,
From his knee his feet bedewing;
And I've heard, his tears they trickled
Through the five wool-wefts of thickness,
Through his jackets eight of wadmal.

Translated by George Borrow.

POWER OF MUSIC

An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may

grow bold,

And take to herself all the wonders of old;

Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same

In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

His station is there; and he works on the crowd,

He sways them with harmony merry and loud; He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim-

Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!

The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss:

The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have

rest;

And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,

So He, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed

Jack,

And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.