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THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC.

MUSIC's Spirit! tell me why
Thou dost sleep so silently,
Caged within a darksome cell,
Organ, viol, flute, or shell,

Till sweet breath or skilful fingers,
Rouse the melody that lingers,
Slumbering in thy prison bound;
And thou dost in tuneful sound,
To a touch thou lovest well,
All thy hidden magic tell,
And the eloquence that lies
In thy wakening ecstasies?

Spirit! who in every part
Of earth, and air, and waters art,
To my wondering soul declare
How thou dost so deeply share
In each sense of pure delight,
Heard and felt, but hid from sight.

S

Thou in bush and brake art dwelling,
In the moonlight billow swelling,
With the gay lark sun-ward soaring,
With the nightingale deploring.
Thou o'er summer streams art dying,
And in morning zephyrs sighing;
Or, in notes of awe and wonder,
Bursting from the clouds in thunder.

I have heard thee in the grove;
Blest thy voice in words of love;
Caught thee when all else was still,
In the mingling sounds, that fill
With soft murmuring notes, the plain,
From the busy insect train:

Felt thee, when the evening breeze
Waved the grass and stirred the trees:
Met thee oft in cloistered piles,
Pealing through Cathedral aisles:
Marked thy hoarser accents gush
In the cataract's wild rush:

Hailed thee, when the distant bells,
Blithely through my native dells,
Rang at eve, and Echo lone

Answered back their last sweet tone,

And thou didst, Enchantress, bring

Long past rapture on thy wing;

But to know thee, I must be,

Spirit! borne to Heaven with thee,

Where thou dwell'st eternally.

THE BRIDEMAID.

THE bridal's glittering pageantry is o'er,
Dancing is weary, and the joy of song,
Tired with its own wild sweetness, dies away;
Music is hushed; the flower-arcaded halls
Cease to prolong the bursts of festive glee,

For luxury itself is satiate,

And pleasure's drowsy train demands repose.

But, see! the dawn's grey streaks are stealing through

The high-arched-windows of a stately room,

Shedding a pale light on the paler brow

Of one who, with a breaking heart, hath stol'n

From the gay revels of that jocund night

To vent, unpitied, agony alone.

In fearful immobility of form

And feature sits she in her blank despair,
Like the cold-sculptured mourner on a tomb,

When silent marble wears the touching guise
Of woman's woe-but, oh! not woe like hers,
Whose every pulse doth vibrate with a pang
Too stern for tears. Her dark dilated eye

Is fixed on things she sees not nor regards.
Her silent lute lies near-its chords no more
Shall wake responsive to her skilful touch;
For he who praised its sounds, and loved to see
Her white hands busy with its murmuring strings
Hath made all music discord to her soul.

Gems that a princess might be proud to wear
Are sparkling in her sight; but what, alas!
Are gems to her who hath beheld the hopes-
The cherished hopes of life for ever crushed,
And withering in the dust like yon gay wreath
Which she hath in her bitter anguish torn
From the sad brow it lately garlanded,

And bade her maidens "hang it on her tomb."

Invidious eyes were on her when she stood
Before the altar with the bridal train

Of her false love-ay! those who coldly scann'd
Her looks and bearing, eager to detect

The struggling pangs which woman's trembling

pride

In that dread hour had nerved her to conceal
Beneath the haughty semblance of disdain
Or calm indifference, when the man she loved
Plighted his perjured vows to other ears-

A knell to hers, at which life's roseate tints
Fled back affrighted, never to return

To her pale cheek, whose marble hue betrayed
The tearless bridemaid's secret agony.

The task is o'er, and she is now alone,

Musing o'er memory of hopes that were,

But are for her no longer;-vanished dreams
Are they for which she mourns. She'd mourn no more
Could she behold him as he really is,

Stripp'd of the veil in which too partial love
Hath dress'd its idol. She would turn away,
And marvel that a heart so pure as hers
Had wasted tenderness on one like him.

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