The many rend the skies with loud applause;

And sounding lyre,
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

At last divine Cecilia came,
Gazed on the fair

Inventress of the vocal frame ;
Who caused his care,

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again :

And added length to solemn sounds, At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, with nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
CHORUS.

Or both divide the crown ;
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, He raised a mortal to the skies.
Gazed on the fair

She drew an angel down.
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,

GRAND CHORUS.
Sighed and looked, and sighed again:

At last divine Cecilia came,
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,

Inventress of the vocal frame;
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
Now strike the golden lyre again :

And added length to solemn sounds, A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown Break his bands of sleep asunder,

before.
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Hark, hark, the horrid sound

Or both divide the crown;
Has raised up his head;

He raised a mortal to the skies,
As awaked from the dead,

She drew an angel down.
And amazed, he stares aronnd.

JOHN DRYDEN, Revenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries,

See the furies arise !
See the snakes that they rear,

THE PASSIONS
How they hiss in their hair!
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.
Behold a ghastly band,

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
Each a torch in his hand !

While yet in early Greece she sung,
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
And unburied remain,

Thronged around her magic cell, —-
Inglorious on the plain :

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, –
Give the vengeance due

Possest beyond the muse's painting;
To the valiant crew.

By turns they felt the glowing mind
Behold how they toss their torches on high, ·

Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; . How they point to the Persian abodes,

Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, And glittering temples of their hostile gods.

Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, The princes applaud with a furious joy ;

From the supporting myrtles round And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

They snatched her instruments of sound;
Thais led the way,

And, as they oft had heard apart
To light him to his prey,

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy!

Each (for madness ruled the hour)
CHORUS.

Would prove his own expressive power.
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Thais led the way,

Amid the cords bewildered laid,
To light him to his prey,

And back recoiled, he knew not why,
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy!

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,

While organs yet were mute ;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute,

Next Anger rushed ; his eyes, on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings :
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings,

ba

With woful measures wan Despair,

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled,

queen, A solemn, strange, and mingled air ;

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

Peeping from forth their alleys green ;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, —

And Sport leapt up, and seizedhis beechen spear. What was thy delightful measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure,

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! He, with viny crown advancing, Still would her touch the strain prolong;

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, She called on Echo still, through all the song ; | Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best :

And where her sweetest theme she chose, They would have thought who heard the strain, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; |

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, golden hair.

To some unwearied minstrel dancing, And longer had she sung — but, with a frown,

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Revenge impatient rose ;

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Hethrew his blood-stained sword in thunder down;

| Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And, with a withering look,

And he, amidst his frolic play, The war-denouncing trumpet took,

As if he would the charming air repay, And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! And ever and anon he beat

O Music ! sphere-descended maid, The doubling drum with furious heat;

Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid ! And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Why, goddess ! why, to us denied, Dejected Pity, at his side,

Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? Her soul-subduing voice applied,

As, in that loved Athenian bower, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien,

| You learned an all-commanding power, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting | Thy mimic soul. O nymph endeared, from his head.

Can well recall what then it heard ; Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed,

Where is thy native simple heart, Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;

Arise, as in that elder time, And now it courted love, - now, raving,

Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! called on Hate.

Thy wonders, in that godlike age,

Fill thy recording sister's page ; With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

'T is said — and I believe the tale Pale Melancholy sate retired ;

Thy humblest reed could more prevail, And from her wild sequestered seat,

Had more of strength, diviner rage, In notes by distance made more sweet,

Than all which charms this laggard age, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive E'en all at once together found, soul ;

Cecilia's mingled world of sound. And, dashing soft from rocks around, O, bid our vain endeavors cease ;

Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Revive the just designs of Greece ! Through glades and glooms the mingled meas- Return in all thy simple state, ure stole;

Confirm the tales her sons relate !

WILLIAM COLLINS Oro'ersome haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687. But O, how altered was its sprightlier tone When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, From harmony, from heavenly harmony, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

This universal frame began ; Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

When Nature underneath a heap
Blewan inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

Of jarring atoms lay,
The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known ! | And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

And sung the great Creator's praise
Arise, ye more than dead !

To all the blessed above ;
Then cold and hot and moist and dry

So when the last and dreadful hour
In order to their stations leap,

This crumbling pageant shall devour, ! And Music's power obey.

The trumpet shall be heard on high,
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

The dead shall live, the living die,
This universal frame began :

And Music shall untune the sky.
From harmony to harmony,

JOHN DRYDEN.
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

MAN.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell ?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
His listening brethren stood around,

How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
And, wondering, on their faces fell

How passing wonder He who made him such !
To worship that celestial sound.

Who centred in our make such strange extremes, Less than a God they thought there could not dwell

| From different natures marvellously mixed, Within the hollow of that shell,

Connection exquisite of distant worlds !
That spoke so sweetly and so well.

Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! What passion cannot Music raise and quell ?

Midway from nothing to the Deity!

A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt !
The trumpet's loud clangor

Though sullied and dishonored, still divine !
Excites us to arms,

Dim miniature of greatness absolute !
With shrill notes of anger,

An heir of glory! a frail child of dust I
And mortal alarms,

Helpless immortal ! insect infinite !
The double double double beat

A worm ! a God ! — I tremble at myself,
Of the thundering drum

And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger,
Cries, hark! the foes come;

Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat. And wondering at her own. How reason reels !

O, what a miracle to man is man !
The soft complaining flute

Triumphantly distressed! Whatjoy! what dread!
In dying notes discovers

Alternately transported and alarmed !
The woes of hopeless lovers,

What can preserve my life? or what destroy ? Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;

Legions of angels can't confine me there.
Sharp violins proclaim

DR. EDWARD YOUNG.
Their jealous panys, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,

MAN — WOMAN.
For the fair, disdainful dame.

Man's home is everywhere. On ocean's flood,
But 0, what art can teach,

Where the strong ship with storm-defying tether
What human voice can reach,

Doth link in stormy brotherhood
The sacred organ's praise ?

Earth's utmost zones together,
Notes inspiring holy love,

Where'er the red gold glows, the spice-trees wave, Notes that wing their heavenly ways

Where the rich diamond ripens, mid the flame To mend the choirs above.

Of vertic suns that ope the stranger's grave,

He with bronzed cheek and daring step doth Orpheus could lead the savage race;

rove; And trees uprooted left their place,

He with short pang and slight
Sequacious of the lyre ;

Doth turn him from the checkered light But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher ; Ofthe fair moon through his own forests dancing, When to her organ vocal breath was given,

Where music, joy, and love
An angel heard, and straight appeared

Were his young hours entrancing;
Mistaking earth for heaven.

And where ambition's thunder-claim

Points out his lot,
GRAND CHORUS.

Or fitful wealth allures to roam,
As from the power of sacred lays

There doth he make his home,
The spheres began to move,

Repining not.

.

It is not thus with Woman. The far halls,

But, lovely child ! thy magic stole Though ruinous and lone,

At once into my inmost soul, Where first her pleased ear drank a nursing With feelings as thy beauty fair, mother's tone;

And left no other vision there.
The home with humble walls,
Where breathed a parent's prayer around her

To me thy parents are unknown;
bed; .

Glad would they be their child to own!
The valley where, with playmates true,

And well they must have loved before,
She culled the strawberry, bright with dew;

If since thy birth they loved not more. The bower where Love her timid footsteps led;

Thou art a branch of noble stem,
The hearthstone where her children grew;

And seeing thee I figure them.
The damp soil where she cast

What many a childless one would give,
The flower-seeds of her hope, and saw them bide

If thou in their still home wouldst live,
the blast,

Though in thy face no family-line
Affection with unfading tint recalls,

Might sweetly say, “This babe is mine" !
Lingering round the ivied walls,

In time thou wouldst become the same Where every rose hath in its cup a bee,

As their own child, — all but the name !
Making fresh honey of remembered things,

JOHN WILSOX.
Each rose without a thorn, each bee bereft of
stings.
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

THE wind blew wide the casement, and within -
MAN – WOMAN.

It was the loveliest picture ! - a sweet child
FROM “DON JUAN."

Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, “Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;

In pauses, from the fountain, — the white round

| Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, 'T is woman's whole existence. Man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,

Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm

Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange

With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast And few there are whom these cannot estrange :

| Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower, Men have all these resources, we but one, —

Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:-
To love again, and be again undone."

And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,
A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,

Looked archly on its world, — the little imp,
TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

As if it knew even then that such a wreath

Were not for all; and with its playful hands ART thou a thing of mortal birth

It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, Whose happy home is on our earth? | And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid Does human blood with life imbue

Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, Those wandering veins of heavenly blue And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears That stray along thy forehead fair,

Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, Lost mid a gleam of golden hair?

Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring 0, can that light and airy breath

The sunlight after. They were tears of joy; Steal from a being doomed to death ? And the true heart of that young mother then Those features to the grave be sent

Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
In sleep thus mutely eloquent ?

The silliest ballad-song that ever yet
Or art thou, what thy form would seem, Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep
The phantom of a blesséd dream ?

To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.
A human shape I feel thou art

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
I feel it at my beating heart,
Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence !

FORTUNE.
Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love ;

FRAGMENT FROM "FANNY."
Thoughts from the living world intrude But Fortune, like some others of her sex,
Even on our deepest solitude ;

Delights in tantalizing and tormenting.

BYRON.