O Death? where is thy victory, O Grave?
Thanks be to God, eternal thanks, who gave
U's victory through Jesus Christ, our Lord.
Harp, lift thy voice on high! shout, angels, shout!
And loudest, ye redeemed! glory to God,
And to the Lamb-all glory and all praise;
All glory and all praise at morn and even,
That come and go eternally and find
Us happy still and thee for ever blest.
Glory to God, and to the Lamb! Amen.
For ever, and evermore.

Amen.

POLLOK.

SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC.

INE is the lay that lightly floats,

And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,

And melt in the heart as instantly!

And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm whose mystic sway
The spirits of past delight obey;—
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come like genii hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song that bears,
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.*

'Tis I that mingle in sweet measure

The past, the present, the future of pleasure;

"The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree."-See BROWN'S ILLUSTR. TAB. 19.

When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; And Hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a heart more heavenly still that is near!

The warrior's heart, when touched by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone—yet moves with a breath. And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When Music has reached her inward soul,

Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While heaven's eternal melodies roll!

MOORE.

MUSIC.

F all the arts beneath the heaven,
That man has found, or God has given,
None draws the soul so sweet away,

H! perfect is a plaintive tune

When slowly sung at fall of even,
In some wild glen beneath the moon,
When silence binds the earth and heaven.

Remembrance rises faint and dim,

Of sorrows suffered long ago, And Joy delighteth in the hymn, Although it only breathe of woe.

WILSON.

MUSIC.

S there a heart that Music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn !

Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt

Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.

The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;

Mop o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn
And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;

Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

MID the golden gifts which heaven

Has left, like portions of its light, on earth,
None hath such influence as Music hath.

The painter's hues stand visible before us

In power and beauty; we can trace the thoughts
Which are the workings of the poet's mind:
But Music is a mystery, and viewless
Even when present, and is less man's act,
And less within his order; for the hand
That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell
Whither they go, or if they live or die,
When floated once beyond his feeble ear:
And then, as if it were an unreal thing,

The wind will sweep from the neglected strings
As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew.

MISS LANDON.

MUSIC.

WEET charmer of the cottage and the throneThe desert and the crowded city's throngsOh, let me hear thee, whilst I stand alone Among the green hills captive to thy songs!

Or when amid the world's unfeeling wrongs
I dwell a prisoner-or when o'er me roll
The mists of Fancy; yet to thee belongs

To chain to imaged scenes my gladdened soul, And to unbosom thoughts beyond the world's control!

For thou, O Music, canst assuage the pain,
And heal the wound, which hath defied the skill
Of sager comforters :-thou dost restrain
Each wild emotion at thy wondrous will;
Thou dost the rage of fiercest passions chill,
Or lightest up the flames of soft desire,

As through the mind thy plaints harmonious thrill,
And thus a magic doth surround the Lyre,
A power divine doth dwell amid the sacred quire!

Thou call'st the soldier to the field of fame,
When drum and trumpet peal the notes of war;
Thou bid'st him glory's meed ambitious claim,
And spreadest his unsullied name afar :
And when beneath the evening's placid star,
The lover clasps the form of her he loves,
Thou dost descend on night's aërial car

And hoverest o'er them in the vocal groves,
And hear'st each whispered vow affection's ear approves !

Unto devotion thou dost furnish wings, Making it soar above the things of earth; With thee, the soul unto the fountain springs, Which shall renew it to a second birth: God, and his power, and his unbounded worth Thou hallowedst, when light from chaos sprang, And heaven's high host were jubilant in mirth, And the wide firmament with harping rang, And listening, star to star, in their staid courses, sang!

Nature is full of thee:-the summer bower
Respondeth to the songster's morning lay;

The bee his concert keeps from flower to flower,
As forth he sallies on his honied way;

Brook calls to brook as down the hill they stray;
The isles resound with song, from shore to shore;
Whilst viewless minstrels on the wings that play
Consorted strains, in liquid measures, pour
To thunder's deep-toned voice, or ocean's sullen roar.

REV. W. B. CLAKKE

LOVE.

N peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;

In hamlets, dances on the green.

Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;

For love is heaven, and heaven is Love.

SCOTT.

LOVE.

RUE Love's the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven.

It is not Fantasy's hot fire,

Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

It liveth not in fierce desire,

With dead desire it doth not die.

It is the sacred sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,

In body and in soul can bind.

SCOTT.