THE POWER OF MUSIC. And ere one flowery season fades and dies, Whose cause is God. One spirit-His, 197 Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, Cowper. THE POWER OF MUSIC. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubims: 198 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. We are never merry when we hear sweet music. You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, By the sweet power of music: Therefore, the poet Let no such man be trusted. Shakspeare. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. O MAN! while in thy early years, Thy glorious youthful prime! Which tenfold force give nature's law, That man was made to mourn. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, A few seem favourites of fate, Yet, think not all the rich and great But, oh! what crowds in every land Through weary life this lesson learn, Many and sharp the numerous ills Makes countless thousands mourn. Yet let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppresséd, honest man Had never sure been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! 199 Burns. TRUE BEAUTY. MEN call you fair, and you do credit it, And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me. For all the rest, however fair it be, Shall turn to naught, and lose that glorious hue; But only that is permanent and free From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. That is true beauty, that doth argue you To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; Derived from that fair spirit from whom all true And perfect beauty did at first proceed. He only fair, and what he fair hath made; Spenser. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. I. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, II. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Tasting of Flora and the country green, 201 Dance and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. III. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few sad last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. IV. Away, away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards; Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the queen moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown ways. V. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs; |