MUSIC.

WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW

SUBSEQUENT VERBAL ALTERATIONS.

MUSIC, all powerful o'er the human mind,

Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Soothe anxious Care on sleepless couch reclin❜d, And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.

At her command the various passions lie;
She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace:
Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstacy,

And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease.

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise;
Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire

Urge on the warrior grey with length of days.

Far better she when with her soothing lyre
She charms the falchion from the savage grasp,

And melting into pity vengeful Ire,

Looses the bloody breast-plate's iron clasp.

With her in pensive mood I long to roam,
At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,
And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,
In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline.

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,

With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,
And pleas'd Attention claims the passive mind.

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,
Then burst majestic in the varied swell ;
Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,

That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul, With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live

For ever 'neath your undefil'd control.

Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,

To cheer the soul when tir'd with human strife, To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,

And soften down the rugged road of life.

ODE,

TO THE HARVEST MOON

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent :

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.

VIRGIL,

MOON of Harvest, herald mild
Of plenty, rustic labour's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,

And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,
Where Innocence and Peace reside;

'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

Moon of Harvest, I do love
O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

VOL. I.

Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon!
Now the Night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,
Ripen'd by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye
And thinking soon,

Oh, modest Moon!

How many a female eye will roam

Along the road,

To see the load,

The last dear load of harvest-home!

Storms and tempests, floods and rains,

Stern despoilers of the plains,
Hence away, the season flee,

Foes to light-heart jollity:
May no winds careering high,
Drive the clouds along the sky,

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,

When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, Harvest

Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes
He dreams of crowded barns, and round

The yard he hears the flail resound;

Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy!

God of the Winds! oh, hear his humble pray'r,

And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blust'ring whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you

Leave I Sleep's dull pow'r to woo :

Press ye still the downy bed,

While fev'rish dreams surround your head;

I will seek the woodland glade,

Penetrate the thickest shade,

Wrapt in Contemplation's dreams,

Musing high on holy themes,

While on the gale

Shall softly sail

The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!