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And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead!"
Then cold and hot, and moist and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began :

From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell, 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 clangor

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 0, what. art can teach,
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise ?

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 organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,

Mistaking earth for heaven.

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Woman.
Sir, for the love of God, some small relief
To a poor woman!.

Traveller.

Whither are you bound? 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs; No house for miles around us, and the way

Dreary and wild. The evening wind already
Makes one's teeth chatter; and the very sun,
Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds,
Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night!

Woman.

Ay, sir, 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath: Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end ; For the way is long before me, and my feet, God help me!-- sore with travelling. I would gladly, If it pleased God, at once lie down and die.

Traveller.
Nay, nay, cheer up! a little food and rest
Will comfort you; and then your journey's end
May make amends for all. You shake your head,
And weep. Is it some mournful business, then,
That leads you from your home ?

TVoman.

Sir, I am going To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt In the late action, and in the hospital Dying, I fear me, now.

Traveller.

He yet may live. But if the worse should chance, why, you must bear The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself, You will not in unpiticd poverty Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country, Amid the triumph of her victory, Remembers those who paid its price of blood,

And with a noble charity relieves
The widow and the orphan.

Woman.

God reward them! God bless them! It will help me in my age. But, sir, it will not pay me for my child!

Traveller. Was he your, only child ?

Woman.

My only one, The stay and comfort of my widowhood !A dear good boy! - When first he went to sea, I felt what it would come to:— something told me I should be childless soon. But tell me, sir, If it be true that for a hurt like his There is no cure. Please God to spare his life, Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful ! I can remember there was a blind man Lived in our village, -one, from his youth up, Quite dark; and yet he was a merry man; And he had none to tend on him so well As I would tend my boy!

Traveller.

Of this be sure :
His hurts are looked to well; and the best help
The land affords as rightly is his due -
Ever at hand. How happened it he left you?
Was a seafaring life his early choice?

Woman.
No, sir : poor fellow ! he was wise enough
To be content at home; and 'twas a home
As comfortable, sir, even though I say it,

As any in the country. He was left
A little boy, when his poor father died,
Just old enough to totter by himself,
And call his mother's name. We two were all ;
And as we were not left quite destitute,
We bore up well. In the summer time I worked
Sometimes afield. Then I was famed for knitting,
And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel
Seldom stood still, We had kind neighbors too,
And never felt distress. So he grew up
A comely lad, and .wondrous well disposed.
I taught him well : there was not in the parish
A child who said his prayers more regular,
Or answered readier through his catechism,
If had foreseen this ! — but 'tis a blessing
We don't know what we're born to !

Traveller.

But how came it

He chose to be a sailor ?

In the corn,

Woman.

You shall hear, sir. As he grew up, he used to watch the birds

child's work, you know, and easily done. 'Tis an idle sort of task : so he built up A little hut of wicker-work and clay Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain ; And then he took, for very idleness, To making traps to catch the plunderers, All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, – Propping a stone, to fall and shut them in, Or crush them with its weight, - or else a spring Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly; And I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased To see the boy so handy. You may guess What followed, sir, from this unlucky skill.

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