Mercy from her twilight throne

Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear,
To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea,
Or widow's cottage-lullaby.

Ye Voices, and ye Shadows

And Images of voice, to hound and horn
From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows
Flung back, and in the sky's blue caves reborn,
On with your pastime! till the church-tower bells
A greeting give of measured glee;

And milder echoes from their cells
Repeat the bridal symphony.
Then, or far earlier, let us rove
Where mists are breaking up or gone,
And from aloft look down into a cove
Besprinkled with a careless quire,
Happy milk-maids, one by one
Scattering a ditty each to her desire,
A liquid concert matchless by nice Art,
A stream as if from one full heart.

Blest be the song that brightens

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth;
Unscorn'd the peasant's whistling breath, that lightens
His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth.
For the tired slave, Song lifts the languid oar,
And bids it aptly fall, with chime
That beautifies the fairest shore,
And mitigates the harshest clime.
Yon pilgrims see,—in lagging file

They move; but soon th' appointed way
A choral Ave Marie shall beguile,

And to their hope the distant shrine

Glisten with a livelier

ray:

Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine,

Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest.

When civic renovation

Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste
Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration
Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast
Piping through cave and battlemented tower:
Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet
That voice of Freedom, in its power
Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet!

Who, from a martial pageant, spreads
Incitements of a battle-day,

Thrilling th' unweapon'd crowd with plumeless heads?-
Even She whose Lydian airs inspire

2

Peaceful striving, gentle play

Of timid hope and innocent desire

Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move
Fann'd by the plausive wings of Love.

How oft along thy mazes,

Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions trod!
O Thou, through whom the temple rings with praises,
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God,
Betray not by the cozenage of sense

Thy votaries, wooingly resign'd

To a voluptuous influence

That taints the purer, better mind;

But lead sick Fancy to a harp

That hath in noble tasks been tried;

And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp,

Soothe it into patience, stay.

-

Th' uplifted arm of Suicide;

And let some mood of thine in firm array
Knit every thought th' impending issue needs,

Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds!

As Conscience, to the centre

Of being, smites with irresistible pain,
So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter

The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain,

Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurl'd, –

Convulsed as by a jarring din;

And then aghast, as at the world

Of reason partially let in

By concords winding with a sway

Terrible for sense and soul;

Or, awed, he weeps, struggling to quell dismay.

Point not these mysteries to an Art

Lodged above the starry pole;

Pure modulations flowing from the heart

Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth
With Order dwell, in endless youth?

2 The allusion is to Sappho, the famous Greek poetess, whom Wordsworth else. where speaks of as "The Lesbian Maid." Her airs are called Lydian with reference to the ancient Greek modes or keys, which were derived from Lydia, and in which the music was of a pathetic and melting character. See page 154, note 4.

Oblivion may

not cover

All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time.
Orphean Insight! truth's undaunted lover,
To the first leagues of tutor'd passion climb,
When Music deign'd within this grosser sphere
Her subtle essence to enfold,

And voice and shell drew forth a tear
Softer than Nature's self could mould.
Yet strenuous was the infant Age: 8
Art, daring because souls could feel,
Stirr'd nowhere but an urgent equipage
Of rapt imagination sped her march
Through the realms of woe and weal:
Hell to the lyre bow'd low; the upper arch
Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse
Her wan disasters could disperse.*

The GIFT to king Amphion

That wall'd a city with its melody

Was for belief no dream: 5.

thy skill, Arion!

Could humanise the creatures of the sea,

Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves,

Leave for one chant;

the dulcet sound

Steals from the deck o'er willing waves,

And listening dolphins gather round.
Self-cast, as with a desperate course,
'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides
A proud One docile as a managed horse;

The ancient myths of Orpheus, Amphion, and Arion are here justly regarded as showing that the old Greek sensibility to music was much more lively and responsive than that of any modern people. Classical poetry and fable were fond of such daring and hyperbolical representations of the power of music, because they felt sure of an answering sympathy in the popular feeling; whereas, to our duller sensibilities, those representations appear so extravagant as to be quite ludicrous. And so Hume, in his essay Of Eloquence, remarks of ancient orators, that "their eloquence was infinitely more sublime than that which modern orators aspire to;" though he attributes this to higher powers of expression and delivery in the ancient speakers: and he illustrates by quoting passages from Demosthenes and Cicero which would be scouted by a modern audience as wholly monstrous and gigantic."

4 "The upper arch" is the heavens or the sky, whose direfullest portents and prodigies were thought to be quelled by lyrical and musical incantations.

5 The fable of Orpheus is, I presume, too well known to need any statement of its contents here. It was in his handling that " Hell to the lyre bow'd low," yielding up his beloved Eurydice to the divine compulsion of his music. - Amphion was King of the Grecian Thebes: his harp and voice so affected the stones that they could not choose but march to their places, and so girdled the city with a wall. 6 Arion was a famous Greek bard and player on the harp. The story is, that he went to Sicily to take part in a musical contest; and, having won the prize, was going home to Corinth by sea, laden with presents, when the rude sailors coveted his wealth and were bent on murdering him. After trying in vain to break their purpose, he at last got leave to play once more on the harp: so, putting on festal attire, and standing in the prow of the ship, he invoked the gods in inspired strains, and then threw himself into the sea. But a flock of song-loving dolphins had gath ered round; and now one of them took the bard on its back, and carried him to Tænarus, from whence he returned safe to Corinth.

And singing, while th' accordant hand
Sweeps his harp, the Master rides;

So shall he touch at length a friendly strand,
And he, with his preserver, shine star-bright
In memory, through silent night.

The pipe of Pan, to shepherds

Couch'd in the shadow of Mænalian pines,"
Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards,
That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines,
How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang!
While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground
In cadence,— and Silenus swang

This way and that, with wild-flowers crown'd.-
To life, to life give back thine ear:
Ye who are longing to be rid

Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear
The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell
Echo'd from the coffin-lid;

The convict's summons in the steeple's knell;
"The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore,
Repeated, heard, and heard no more!

For terror, joy, or pity,

Vast is the compass and the swell of notes:
From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city,
Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats
Far as the woodlands, — with the trill to blend
Of that shy songstress whose love-tale
Might tempt an angel to descend,

While hovering o'er the moonlit vale.

Ye wandering Utterances, has Earth no scheme,
No scale of moral music, to unite

Powers that survive but in the faintest dream

Of memory?-O, that ye might stoop to bear

7 Manalian is the same as Arcadian; Manalus being the name of the mountains in Arcadia, which were celebrated as the favourite haunts of the god Pan. Arcadia is the old name of the central portion of Peloponnesus. The Arcadians were noted as a simple pastoral people, passionately fond of music, and devoted to the worship of Pan.

8 Fauns and Satyrs appear to have been much the same, only the former were Roman, the latter Grecian. They were among the minor divinities of the ancient mythology: in form, half man and half goat, with horns; vastly given to music and wine, and to sensual pleasures of all sorts. Silenus was their chief, and a very funny god withal. He was generally intoxicated, and is described as a jovial old man, with a bald head, a puck nose, fat and round like his wine-bag, which he always carried with him. He was specially given to dancing, and so was called the dancer: in other respects, his addiction was about equally divided between wine, sleep, and music. But his main peculiarity lay in his being an inspired prophet, who knew all the past and the remotest future, and also a sage who despised all the gifts of fortune. When drunk or asleep, he was in the power of mortals, who could compel him to prophesy and sing by tying him up with chains of flowers.

Chains, such precious chains of sight
As labour'd minstrelsies through ages wear!
O, for a balance fit the truth to tell

Of th' Unsubstantial, ponder'd well!

By one pervading spirit

Of tones and numbers all things are controll❜d,
As sages taught, where faith was found to merit
Initiation in that mystery old.

The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still
As they themselves appear to be,
Innumerable voices fill

With everlasting harmony;

The towering headlands, crown'd with mist,
Their feet among the billows, know

That Ocean is a mighty harmonist;

Thy pinions, universal Air,

Ever waving to and fro,

Are delegates of harmony, and bear

Strains that support the Seasons in their round;
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

Break forth into thanksgiving,

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords;

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living,

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words!

Nor hush'd be service from the lowing mead,

Nor mute the forest hum of noon;

Thou too be heard, lone eagle! freed
From snowy peak and cloud, attune
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn
Of joy, that from her utmost walls
The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim,
Transmits to Heaven! As Deep to Deep
Shouting through one valley calls,

All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep
For praise and ceaseless gratulation, pour'd

Into the ear of God, their Lord!

9. Alluding to what is called "the music of the spheres,". -an ancient mystery which taught that the heavenly bodies in their revolutions sing together in a concert so loud, various, and sweet, as to exceed all proportion to the human ear. The same thing is apparently referred to in Job, xxxviii. 7: The morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy." And the greatest souls in every age seem to have been raised above themselves by the idea that the universe was knit together by a principle of which musical harmony is the aptest and clearest expression. So the well-known passage in The Merchant of Venice, v. 1:

"There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins."