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MUSIC.

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose like a steam of rich distill'd perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that ev'n silence

Was took ere she was 'ware, and wish'd she might
Deny her nature and be never more,
Still to be so displac'd. I was all ear

And took in strains that might create a soul
Under the ribs of death.

Milton's Comus.

Music has charms to soothe the savage breast,
To soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak.

Congreve's Mourning Bride.

I'll think no more on't.

Give me some music; look that it be sad.

Ev'n

age

itself is cheer'd with music:

It wakes a glad remembrance of our youth,

Dryden.

Calls back past joys, and warms us into transport. Rowe's Fair Penitent, a. 2, s. 1.

Though cheerfulness and I have long been strangers, Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me.

There's sure no passion in the human soul,

But finds its food in music.

Lillo's Fatal Curiosity.

Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad,
The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay,
And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep.

Joanna Baillie's Basil, a. 2, s. 4.

I thank thee; this shall be our daily song.

It cheers my heart, altho' these foolish tears

Seem to disgrace its sweetness.

Joanna Baillie's Beacon, a. 1, s. 2.

I do remember too,

She told me of a mermaid once, that lay
Along the scooped side of a hollow wave,
Singing such dulcet music, that the ear,
Like a wooed damsel, trembled with delight.

Sir A. Hunt's Julian.

Perhaps the breath of music

May prove more eloquent than my poor words:
It is the medicine of the breaking heart.

Oh! that I were

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,
A living voice, a breathing harmony,
A bodiless enjoyment-born and dying
With the blest tone that made me !

Ibid.

Byron's Manfred, a. 1, s. 2.

There is a charm, a power, that sways the breast;
Bids every passion revel or be still;

Inspires with rage, or all our cares dissolves;
Can soothe distraction, and almost despair.

That power is music.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. 4.

Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens every pain,
Subdues the rage of poison and of plague.

Yet what is music, and the blended power
Of voice with instruments of wind and string?
What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?
'Tis past and all that it has left behind

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,

Ibid.

A void and countless hour in life's brief day. Crowe.

But hark! the village clock strikes nine-the chimes Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make
False-measured melody on crazy bells.
O wondrous power of modulated sound!
Which like the air (whose all obedient shape
Thou mak'st thy slave) canst subtily pervade
The yielded avenues of sense, unlock
The close affections, by some fairy path
Winning an easy way through every ear,
And with thine unsubstantial quality
Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all;
All, but some cold and sullen-tempered spirits,
Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleas'd
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave.
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touched within us, and the heart replies.

Crowe.

Cowper's Task, b. 6.

How soft the music of those village bells
Falling at intervals upon the ear

In cadence sweet! now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again and louder still,
Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on.
With easy force it opens all the cells

Where mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.

Ibid.

N.

NATURE.

In contemplation of created things

By steps we may ascend to God.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 5,

Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor;
Who lives to fancy, never can be rich.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 6.
Who can paint

Like nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,
And lose them in each other, as appears

In every bud that blows? Thomson's Seasons-Spring..

Nature! great parent! whose unceasing hand
Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year,
How mighty, how majestic, are thy works!
With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul!
That sees astonish'd! and astonish'd sings!

Ibid.-Winter..

Ask the swain

Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold

The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds,
O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutor'd airs,
Beyond the power of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart,
How lovely! how commanding!

Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination, b. 3.

How oft upon yon eminence, our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew,
While admiration feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!

Cowper's Task, b. 1..

Thus nature works as if to mock at art,
And in defiance of her rival pow'rs;

By these fortuitous and random strokes
Performing such inimitable feats,

As she with all her rules can never reach.

Cowper's Task, b. 5.

All natural objects have

An echo in the heart. This flesh doth thrill
And has connexion by some unseen chain
With its original source and kindred substance.
The mighty forest, the proud tides of ocean,
Sky-cleaving hills, and in the vast of air,
The starry constellations; and the sun,
Parent of life exhaustless-these maintain
With the mysterious mind and breathing mould
A co-existence and community. Sir A. Hunt's Julian.

NEWS.

The rabble gather round the man of news,
And listen with their mouths wide open; some
Tell, some hear, some judge of news, some make it,
And he that lies most loud, is most believed.

Dryden's Spanish Friar.

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder bridge
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks,
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
Cowper's Task, b. 4.

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.

Ibid.

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