MUSIC.

"JESSICA-I am never merry, when I hear sweet music.
LORENZO-The reason is, your spirits are attentive:

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood;

If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature."

Merchant of Venice, Act v. Scene 1.

If there be anything which has the power, not only of delighting and entertaining the mind, but also of reaching the heart, at all times and seasons, whether in the hour of mirth or sadness,—of exalting and intellectualizing the former, and of softening and bettering the latter,—it is music; I speak not of the science and the art of music, for music can exist without art. There is a music of nature which no well-taught strains, uttered from the lips of the most accomplished cantatrice, can equal. Who has not listened to the song of the skylark as she sings at heaven's gate, till he has burst into rapture, and exclaimed with the poet

"Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,

Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt,

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want;"

or who has not hung upon the strains of the love-lorn nightingale, as she poured out her sweet harmony to the moon when the world was asleep? This is the music of nature, and I doubt not that every living thing is created capable of its enjoyment. There is in nature even a silent music, which Shakspere has so beautifully described

There's not the smallest orb, which thou beholdst,

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims."

yea! all nature abounds in music; and it was wisely ordained that it should be so, for what could be found so fit to tame and soften that rudest and most fierce of all created beings-man?

At all times music is the food of the heart. Are we elated with mirth and conviviality-what can be so becoming to the festive hour as lively and inspiring music? Is the spirit borne down by sorrow and grief, as the heart of Saul was,-call but some minstrel David with his harp, and the dark clouds that have come over will vanish, and the sunshine once more take its place. To the martial strains of music, thousands of warriors arm themselves for the fight, amid the braying of the shrill trumpet, and the roll of the thundering drum. Conflicting nations, inspired with a valour unfelt before, rush headlong to the charge which decides the fate of kingdoms; nay, when the victory is won, music accompanies the victors to their home with joy, and follows to the grave the last relics of the fallen. The peaceful shepherd, as he tends his little flock, soothes his solitude with the warblings of his pipe; and amid the roarings of the tumultuous billows of the deep, the boatswain's whistle cheers the heart of the despairing mariner. To the exile and the wanderer, the songs of his native land are dear in his most dreary hours; they speak to him of his own country, and recall the visions of his home, far away. The worshipper offers up his devotions to his Maker in strains of harmony; and the child, yet incapable of speech, listens with delight to the lullaby that visits his cradle and soothes him to repose.

Over memory, how great is the power of music! it is the masterkey which unlocks the chambers of the past. Hours long forgotten, and scenes on which the heart loves to dwell, are often recalled by some simple melody when we have essayed by every other means to bring them back again. The most beautiful description of this power of music is that of Byron, in his death of Haidee, who in her trance could be recalled to consciousness by no means-or induced to recognise anything that was passing around her :

"And then a slave bethought her of a harp.
The harper came, and tuned his instrument;

At the first notes-irregular and sharp

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent;

Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent;
And he began a long low island song,

Of ancient days-ere tyranny grew strong.

"Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall

In time to his old tune; he changed the theme,

And sung of love: the fierce man struck through all
Her recollection; on her flashed the dream

Of what she was and is, if ye could call

To be so being; in a gushing stream

The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain."

Need I remind the reader of the power of music described in the "Alexander's Feast" of Dryden? In short, all poets have written upon, and all men have felt it.

Farther than this, one great poet has placed it among the signs of the goodness or otherwise of a man's heart.—

"The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils :

The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Erebus

Let no such man be trusted."

And this is, I doubt not, for the most part, a good criterion. How good a thing, and how much to be desired, is it that music should be cultivated and encouraged-not only among the higher classes of society, but even among the poor. In the present age, knowledge of all kinds in the lower orders of society is making rapid strides-whether for good or ill time only can prove. Of one thing, however, I am sure that music, go where it will, must tend to elevate a people in the scale of intellectual beings. Efforts of the kind are making now among us by the enterprising exertions of several individuals, and I trust their labours will be crowned with success. Certain I am, that those who cultivate their love of it, open new stores of enjoyment, which can never be taken from them ; and solitary hours, which may now be lonely, may one day be intellectually employed, and from the prince to the peasant a new link formed by an universal and all-pervading love of music.

C. H. H.

EPITAPH.

(From the Greek.)

THIS stone, beloved Sabinus, tells thy fate,
How small memorial of a love how great.
My love endureth; thou thy pledge redeem,
Nor drink forgetfulness at Lethe's stream.

VOL, II.-NO. V.

L L

G. S. W.

HORACE.-LIB. iii. OD. ix.

HOR. WHEN, Lydia, I was all your own,
And round that lovely neck divine

No other arm more dear was thrown,
A blissful lot indeed was mine.

LYD. When all thy heart was fixed on me,
And Chloë left me not behind,

Oh! then, how blest I used to be,
For you adored-and I was kind.

HOR. Me Chloë now, divinely fair,

Skilled in the harp and song, subdues;
For whom I'd thousand perils dare,
Nor death itself for her refuse.

LYD. And me young Calaïs' charms enslave,
Whose breast is warmed with mutual glow;
To free him from the gloomy grave,
A double grave I'd undergo.

HOR. What if our former love again,

Though long neglected, should return;
Should I shake off fair Chloë's chain,
And for forsaken Lydia turn?

LYD. Though Calaïs bright as evening star,
Thou fickle as the wind shouldst be,

Or than the billows stormier far,
I'll live and die alone with thee.

F. L. SIMS.

DIRGE.

OH! mourn for the Muses, on Pindus so lately
Who danced in a ring to Apollo's sweet lyre,
And moved toward the altar with gesture so stately,
A heaven-born, chanting, harmonious quire.

Oh! mourn for the fountain deserted and dry;

Not a drop ever flows the parched herbage to water; Still Harmony sadly is lingering by

To seek or to weep for her youngest fair daughter.

On the banks of Ilissus the goddess gave birth

To three times three muses-by poets 'tis said;
And where they were born we should hallow the earth,
For the trees of Academy sheltered the maid.
And 'tis told that the maids, ere for ever they fled,
Returned for awhile to their earliest abode,

And the last tears on earth that Divinity shed,
Were dropped on their fav'rite Athenian sod.

S. T. S.