A DESCRIPTION OF MUSIC.

125 Of misery; sore pierc'd by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty; how many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse, Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, They furnish matter to the tragic Muse : E’en in the vale where wisdom loves to dwell, With friendship, peace, and contemplation join’d, How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep-retir'd distress ; how many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish. Thought fond

man Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills That one incessant struggle render life, One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Vice in his high career would stand appall’d, And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think ; The conscious heart of Charity would warm, And her wide wish Benevolence dilate ; The social tear would rise, the social sigh; And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work.

THOMSON.

A DESCRIPTION OF MUSIC.
EFTSOONs they heard a most delicious sound
Of all that mote delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,

126

POETS. Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere. Right hard it was for wight which did it hear To read what manner music that mote be ; For all that pleasing is to living ear

Was there consorted in one harmony -
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree !

The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attemper'd sweet ;
Th' angelical, soft, trembling voices made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet,
With the base murmur of the water's fall;
The water's fall, with difference discreet,

Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.

SPENSER

OTHERS ADMIRE IN THEE A POET'S FIRE. OTHERS admire in thee a poet's fire, So sweetly temper’d to a classic lyre ; Others, how deepest thought and wise design Put on harmonious beauty in each line; Others, how thy sweet urn of sacred glee Lights earthly things with heavenly charity; Others, how every turn and winding scene Leads to a temple in the blue serene; One would to thy meek willow's lesson turn, One melodies of mountain streamlet learn; One loves thy red November's calm decay, One the bright lengthening of thine April day.

One with thee enters in the bome divine
To worship there, but not to praise thy shrine.
'Tis sweet to note, in varying character,
How each his bosom’d thoughts finds pictured there.
And some condemn thee as too deep a mine,
Where haply diamonds hid and rubies shine,
But they upon the surface love to flit,-
'Twere diving into Pindar's golden wit !
But these things other thoughts to me endear;
Thy book I love because thyself is there.
And all I know of glad philosophy,
And all I know of life's home poesy,
And all I know of calm and healthful thought,
And all of better wisdom Heaven hath taught,
And all that I have seen of azure sky
Brought forth from out a deep captivity,
And all which through the clouds of sin and grief
Has shed o'er life a light of sweet relief,
And all that I have known of cheering glow,
That glares not but lights up our hearth below,
And all I have of friends more dear than life,
Calming with gentler wisdom this world's strife
(So it bath pleasèd Heaven, who gave the same),
These all to me are link'd with thy dear name.
Through thee, whate'er through broken clouds

hath gleam'd, Through thee from Heaven these beams on me

have stream'd. Therefore, when others talk, yet own I still Far deeper thoughts than theirs my bosom fill.

IS. WILLIAMS.

CUMNOR HALL.
The dews of summer night did fall ;

The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies,

The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile. “ Leicester !" she cried, “is this thy love

That thou so oft bast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,

Immur’d in shameful privity ?
No more thou com’st with lover's speed

Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she 'live, or be she dead,

I fear, stern earl, 's the same to thee. Not so the usage I receiv'd

When happy in my father's hall : No faithless husband then me griev'd,

No chilling fears did me appal. I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; And like the bird that haunts the thorn,

So merrily sung the livelong day.

CUMNOR HALL.

129

If that my beauty is but small,

Amongst court ladies all despis'd Why didst thou rend it from that hall

Where, scornful earl, it well was priz’d?
And when you first to me made suit,

How fair I was you oft would say;
And, proud of conquest, pluck'd the fruit,

Then left the blossom to decay.
Yes, now neglected and despis’d,

The rose is pale—the lily's dead; But he that once their charms so priz'd

Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. For, know, when sick’ning grief doth prey,

And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay

What flow'ret can endure the storm ? At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,

Where every lady's passing rare;
That eastern flowers that shame the sun

Are not so glowing, not so fair :
Then, earl, why did'st thou leave the beds

Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades

Must sicken when those gauds are by? 'Mong rural beauties I was one ;

Among the fields wild flowers are fair : Some country swain might me have won,

And thought my beauty passing rare.