What passion cannot Music raise and quell ?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell 1
His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well, What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangour

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum
Cries, "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion
For the fair disdainful dame.

But O, what art can teach
What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise?

1 The lyre, originally made of a tortoise-shell.

Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;
When to her 2 organ vocal breath was given
An angel heard, and straight appeared-
Mistaking Earth for Heaven!

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blest above;

So, when the last and dreadful hour
This trembling pageant shall devour,
The Trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.3

J. DRYDEN

41.-GLEN-ALMAIN; OR THE NARROW GLEN

IN this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen ;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek streamlet, only one :

1 Following.

2 A later tradition makes Cecilia the inventor of the organ. 3 As the "music of the spheres" was brought into being by a higher Music, so a higher Music will at last destroy it.

He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

And everything unreconciled;

In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet :
But this is calm; there cannot be

A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
Or is it but a groundless creed?

What matters it ?—I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lovely spot
Was moved; and in such way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.

A convent, even a Hermit's cell,
Would break the silence of this dell;
It is not quiet, it is not ease,

But something deeper far than these:
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
Yet happy feelings of the dead :
And therefore was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race,
Lies buried in this lonely place.

W. WORDSWORTH

42.-ON LEONARDI DA VINCI'S "VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS"

WHILE young John runs to greet

The greater Infant's feet,

The Mother standing by, with trembling passion Of devout admiration,

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty

adoration;

Nor knows as yet the full event

Of those so low beginnings,

From whence we date our winnings,

But wonders at the intent

Of those new rites, and what that strange child

worship meant.

But at her side

An angel doth abide,
With such a perfect joy

As no dim doubts alloy,
An intuition,

A glory, an amenity,

Passing the dark condition

Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew

All the blest wonder should ensue,

Or he had lately left the upper sphere,

And had read all the sovran schemes and divine

riddles there.

C. LAMB

43.-TO HIS WIFE

(FROM "THE EXEQUY")

SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted.

My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake,
Till age or grief or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there: I will not fail
To meet thee in that narrow vale
And think not much of my delay :
I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.
Thus from the sun my bottom steers
And my day's compass downward bears;
Nor labour I to stem the tide

Through which to thee I gently glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave.