412

MOON-STARS-SUN.

MOON-STARS-SUN.

1. The weary sun hath made a golden set, And, by the bright track of his fiery car, Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.

2. But yonder comes the glorious king of day, Rejoicing in the East.

3.

See, at the call of night,

The star of evening sheds his silver light
High o'er yon western hill.

4. Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray.

5.

The sky

Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light
So wildly, spiritually bright.

Who ever gaz'd upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?

SHAKSPEARE.

MILTON.

GAY'S Dione.

POPE.

BYRON'S Siege of Corinth.

6. Ye stars, that are the poetry of heaven!

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

7. The queen of night asserts her silent reign.

BYRON'S Corsair.

8. Plac'd in the spangled sky, with visage bright

The full-orb'd moon her radiant beams displays;
But 'neath the vivid sun's more splendid rays,
Sinks all her charms, and fades her lovely light.

From the Portuguese.

9. How oft at midnight have I fix'd my gaze Upon the blue, unclouded firmament,

10.

With thousand spheres illumin'd, and, perchance,
The powerful centres of revolving worlds?

-Going forth,

HON. W. HERBERT.

Her princely way among the stars in slow

And silent brightness.

H. WARE.

11. But the stars, the soft stars!—when they glitter above us, I gaze on their beams with a feeling divine;

For, as true friends in sorrow more tenderly love us,
The darker the heaven, the brighter they shine!
MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.

12. O! who can lift above a careless look,

While such bright scenes as these his thoughts engage, And doubt, while reading from so fair a book,

That God's own finger trac'd the glowing page;

Or deem the radiance of yon blue expanse,

With all its starry hosts, the careless work of Chance?

MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.

MORNING.-(See DAY.)

MOTHER. (See FATHER.)

MOUNTAINS..

1. He who first met the highlands' swelling blue,
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue;
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.

BYRON'S Island.

414

2.

MOURNING - MURDER.

Above me are the Alps,

The palaces of nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And thron'd eternity in icy halls

Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche- the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,

Gather around these summits, as to show

How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

3. Who first beholds the Alps,—that mighty chain

Of mountains, stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to heaven than earth
But instantly receives into his soul

A sense, a feeling that he loses not

A something that informs him 't is a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever.

4. Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines,

ROGERS' Italy.

In the soft light of your serenest skies;
From the broad highland regions, dark with pines,
Fair as the hills of paradise, ye rise!

W. C. BRYANT.

5. And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky,
And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,
So softly blending, that the cheated eye

Forgets or which is earth or which is heaven.

1. Oh! it came over me like the sweet South, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.

SHAKSPEARE.

As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair.

SHAKSPEARE.

3. The man that hath not music in himself,
And is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,

5. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?

SHAKSPEARE.

MILTON.

MILTON'S Comus.

6. Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul,

And lap it in Elysium.

MILTON'S Comus.

7. Music the fiercest grief can charm,

And fate's severest rage disarm.

Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please;
Our joys below it can improve,

And antedate the bliss above.

8. Music resembles poetry; in each

POPE.

Are numerous graces which no methods teach,
And which a master-hand alone can reach.

POPE'S Essay on Criticism.

416

MUSIC-SINGING.

9. Even rage itself is cheer'd with music:

It wakes a glad remembrance of our youth,
Calls back past joys, and warms us into transport.

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

ROWE.

CONGREVE.

11. 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.

12. 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 touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

LILLO.

COWPER'S Task.

13. Sweet notes! they tell of former peace,
Of all that look'd so rapturous then ;
Now wither'd, lost-Oh! pray thee, cease,
I cannot hear those sounds again!

14. Music! Oh, how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell!

Why should feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may pain,
Love's are e'en more false than they -

Oh! 't is only music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

15. Her voice was like the warbling of a bird, So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear.

MOORE.

MOORE.

BYRON'S Don Juan.