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POWER OF MUSIC.

125

They're superstitious, but religious still.
He hears the sullen murmur of the seas,
That tumble round the stormy Orcades,
Or, deep beneath him, heave with boundless roar
Their sparkling surges to that savage shore;
And thinks a spirit rolls the weltering waves
Through rifted rocks and hollow-rumbling caves.

Round the dark windows clasping ivy clings, Twines round the porch, and in the sea-breeze swings; Its green leaves rustle :-heavy winds arise; The low cells echo, and the dark hall sighs. Now Fancy sees the ideal canvass stretched, And o'er the lines, that Truth has dimly sketched, Dashes with hurried hand the shapes that fly Hurtled along before her frenzied eye. The scudding cloud, that drives along the coast, Becomes the drapery of a warrior's ghost, Who sails serenely in his gloomy pall, O'er Morven's woods and Tura’s mouldering wall, To join the feast of shells, in Odin's misty hall. Is that some demon's shriek, so loud and shrill, Whose flapping robes sweep o'er the stormy hill ? No:—'tis the mountain blast, that nightly rages Around those walls, gray with the moss of ages. Is that a lamp sepulchral, whose pale light Shines in yon vault, before a spectre white ?

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POWER OF MUSIC.

No:--'tis a glow-worm, burning greenly there,
Or meteor, swimming slowly on the air.
What mighty organ swells its deepest tone,
And sighing heaves a low, funereal moan,
That murmurs through the cemetery's glooms,
And throws a deadlier horror round its tombs?
Sure, some dread spirit o'er the keys presides !
The same that lifts these darkly thundering tides ;
Or, homeless, shivers o'er an unclosed grave;
Or shrieking, off at sea, bestrides the white-maned ware.

Yes!—'tis some Spirit that those skies deforms,
And wraps in billowy clouds that hill of storms.
Yes :-'tis a Spirit in those vaults that dwells,
Illumes that hall, and murmurs in those cells.
Yes :—'tis some Spirit on the blast that rides,
And wakes the eternal tumult of the tides.
That Spirit broke the poet's morning dream,
Led him o'er woody hill and babbling stream,
Lured his young foot to every vale that rung,
And charmed his ear in every bird that sung;
With various concerts cheered his hours of light,
But kept the mightiest in reserve till night;
Then, throned in darkness, pealed that wildest air,
Froze his whole soul, and chained the listener there.

EUTHANASIA.

BY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

METHINKS, when on the languid eye

Lify's autumn scenes grow dim; When evening shadows veil the sky,

And Pleasure's syren hymn Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, Like echoes from another sphere,

Or dream of Seraphim, It were not sad, to cast away This dull and cumbrous load of clay.

It were not sad, to feel the heart

Grow passionless and cold; To feel those longings to depart,

That cheered the good of old;

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EUTHANASIA.

To clasp the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,

And makes the curtain fold
That falls upon his wasting breast,
The door that leads to endless rest.

It were not lonely thus to lie

On that triumphant bed,
Till the pure spirit mounts on high,

By white-winged seraphs led :
Where glories earth may never know,
O'er 'many mansions' lingering glow,

In peerless lustre shed;
It were not lonely thus to soar,
Where Sin and Grief can sting no more

And though the way to such a goal

Lies through the clouded tomb,
If on the free unfettered soul

There rests no stains of gloom,
How should its aspirations rise,
Far through the blue unpillared skies,

Up to its final home!
Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run.

TO THE SHIP OF THE LINE

PENNSYLVANIA.

BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.

“ LEAP forth to the careering seas,"

Oh, ship of lofty name !
And toss upon thy native breeze

The stars and stripes of fame!
And bear thy thunders o'er the deep

Where vaunting navies ride!
Thou hast a nation's gems to keep

Her honor and her pride!
Oh! holy is the covenant made

With thee and us to-day ;-
· None from the compact shrinks afraid,

No traitor utters nay!
We pledge our fervent love, and thou

Thy glorious ribs of oak, Alive with men who cannot bow 'To kings, nor kiss the yoke!

Speed lightnings o'er the Carib Sea,

Which deeds of hell deform; And look! her hands are spread to thee

Where Afric's robbers swarm. Go! lie upon the Ægean's breast,

Where sparkle emerald isles

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