|
"Ay! then to those who
love the science well,
Music becomes a passion and a spell!
Music, the tender child of rudest times,
The gentle native of all lands and climes;
Who hymns alike man's cradle and his grave,
Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave;
Cheers the poor peasant, who his native hills
With wild Tyrolean echoes sweetly fills;
Inspires the Indian's low monotonous chant,
Weaves skilful melodies for Luxury's haunt;
And still, through all these changes, lives the same,
Spirit without a home, without a name,
Coming, where all is discord, strife, and sin,
To prove some innate harmony within
Our listening souls; and lull the heaving breast
With the dim vision of an unknown rest!
"But, dearest child, though many a joy be given
By the pure bounty of all-pitying Heaven, -
Though sweet emotions in our hearts have birth,
As flowers are spangled on the lap of earth, -
Though, with the flag of Hope and Triumph hung
High o'er our heads, we start when life is young,
And onward cheered, by sense, and sight, and sound,
Like a launched bark, we enter with a bound;
Yet must the dark cloud lour, the tempest fall,
And the same chance of shipwreck waits for all.
Happy are they who leave the harbouring land
Not for a summer voyage, hand in hand,
Pleasure's light slaves; but with an earnest eye
Exploring all the future of their sky;
That so, when Life's career at length is past,
To the right haven they may steer at last,
And safe from hidden rock, or open gale,
Lay by the oar, and furl the slackened sail, -
To anchor deeply on that tranquil shore
Where vexing storms can never reach them more!
Next
|