LVII.

MUSIC.

IKE the gale, that fighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of fong,

That once was heard in happier

hours;

Filled with balm, the gale fighs on,
Though the flowers have funk in death;

So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in mufic's breath.

Mufic! oh how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy fpell!

Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her foul fo well?

Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are e'en more falfe than they;

Oh! 'tis only Mufic's ftrain

Can fweetly foothe, and not betray!

Moore.

LVIII.

MUSIC.

HERE the bright Seraphim, in burning

row,

Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow;

And the Cherubick hoft, in thousand

quires,

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,

With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy pfalms

Singing everlastingly.

MILTON.

A

LIX.

MUSIC.

ND ftoried windows, richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In fervice high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into ecftafies,

And bring all heaven before mine

eyes.

MILTON.

A

LX.

ST. IGNATIUS.

S, one by one, ftars on the Eastern space
Come forth, while daylight fades,

And greet each other to their heavenly
place,

Thus, while death's deepening fhades

Darken around thy fteps in ftranger lands,

Sweet awful memories of thine own St. John
Wake round thee; martyred Peter beckoning ftands,
And ftirs again the Spirit's benifon

Given through his hands; upon the self-fame road,
Lo, the bright footsteps of the death-bound Paul!
Thy foul is fanned to burning hardihood:
We hear in thee the Bridegroom's warning call,
And full of glowing life thy dying accents fall!

The Saviour laid thy body in the duft.

That thou might'ft rule thy flock a priest on high,

And teach thy children to afcend the sky.

SYNESIUS.

LXII.

ST. AUGUSTINE.

HE child of tears, the child of tears,
Of many hopes and anxious fears,
Is better than the child whose birth
Is ufher'd in with founds of mirth.

Think not that nought is well below,
Save when the tides of pleasure flow;
For tears can come from God above,
The facred tears of mother's love.

Defpair not of thy wayward fon,
Nor think that all thou canst is done;
For not in vain those tears are shed,
They must bring bleffings on his head.

He cannot, muft not, fhall not die;
His life is ranfomed for the sky;
Where God Himself fhall dry thy tears,
And joys eternal banish fears.

Grief-wafted Mother, go thy way,
Be sure thy tears have won the day;
For prayers can ope the gates of Heaven;
All force to prayers and tears is given.*

MACKENZIE.

*The above lines are a fort of paraphrafe from the confeffions of St. Augustine, 1. iii. c. ult. by the late F. Mackenzie.

R

LXIII.

MELANCTHON.

IS fun went down in cloudless skies,
Affured upon the morn to rife
In lovelier array.

But not like earth's declining light,
To vanifh back again to night;
The zenith where he now fhall glow,

No bound, no fetting beam can know—
Without a cloud or fhade of woe
In that eternal day.

LXIV.

LYCIDAS.

EEP no more, woful fhepherds, weep no

more,

For Lycidas your forrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery

flood;

So finks the day-star in the ocean bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;

So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of Him that walked the

waves.

MILTON.