So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.

THE SAME.

WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light.
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite,

Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night!-
But, from the arms of silence list! O list!-
The music bursteth into second life;

The notes luxuriate, every stone is kiss'd
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife;
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!

CONTINUED.

THEY dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam;
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam
Melts if it cross the threshold; where the wreath
Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome
Hath typified by reach of daring art
Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest,
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread
As now, when she hath also seen her breast
Fill'd with mementos, satiate with its part
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.

ON THE POWER OF SOUND.

ARGUMENT.

The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in communion with sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony. - -Sources and effects of those sounds.-The power of music, whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot. Origin of music, and its effect in early ages. The mind recalled to sounds acting casually and severally. - Wish uttered that these could be united into a scheme or system for moral interests and intellectual contemplation. - The Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, with their supposed power over the motions of the universe-imaginations consonant with such a theory.-Wish expressed, realised in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under the form of thanksgiving to the Creator. The destruction of earth and the planetary system the survival of audible harmony, and its support in the Divine Nature, as re. vealed in Holy Writ.

THY functions are ethereal,

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind,
Organ of vision! And a Spirit aërial
Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind;
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought
To enter than oracular cave;

Strict passage, through which sighs are brought,
And whispers for the heart, their slave;

And shrieks, that revel in abuse

Of shivering flesh; and warbled air,
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose
The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile
Into the ambush of despair;

Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle,
And requiems answer'd by the pulse that beats
Devoutly, in life's last retreats!1

The headlong streams and fountains

Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untirèd powers;
Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains,
They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers.
That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am,
How fearful to the desert wide!

That bleat, how tender! of the dam

Calling a straggler to her side.

Shout, cuckoo!-let the vernal soul

Go with thee to the frozen zone;

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, toll!
At the still hour to Mercy dear,

1 I am not quite clear as to the meaning of this. "The pulse that beats devoutly, in life's last retreats," may mean the innermost feelings of the heart, feelings seated there where life is supposed to hold out longest; or it may mean the devout feelings of a "good and faithful servant" in his dying moments. If the latter, then "requiems answer'd by the pulse, &c., must be taken in the sense of “requiems speaking in accordance with the pulse," &c.

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 ligh as
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 She2 whose Lydian airs inspire

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:
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:- 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 atire, 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.