MUSIC. Soft music makes me sad; as if its tones Art is but nature's finer sense exprest, In forms idealized. The graver's style, The brush, string, chisel, voice, each acts, the while, Its fitting part; to eye or ear addrest, In shape, or hue, in tune, or spoken sounds. Music of these may earliest lineage claim, Child of the grove! what time the gay birds* came, Warbling, self-taught, while earth with joy resounds, Eve's bridal song, through Eden's verdant bounds. Love first waked music and the tuneful mind Pours still, thro' thrilling notes, with rapture fraught, In one deep symphony of passion joined, Hope, fear, love, joy, whate'er of earnest thought, Or ardent feeling, sound from soul hath caught. SCULPTURE. I. Chained to the chariot of triumphant art, We stand as captives, and would not depart. BYRON. Nature is perfect, yet can Art improve On that perfection; for 'tis her's to join Hence works of art, that mingle awe with love, Yet earth-born, quarried from the living mine 'Tis his on nature's beauties to refine, II. 'Twas but a block of lifeless stone Yet they could form to sculpture give, Who that has gazed, in rapture's silent dream, On thee, O Queen of Love! till, in his sight, Who but has felt that marble, in such strife, Life, matched with highest art, found weak and vain. PAINTING. They are, in truth, the substance, we the shadows. WORDSWORTH. Nor less the Painter, with his brush, can spread MORNING WALK. Go, breathe the morning air, and feel its touch, Though wild scenes charm, yet dearer far to me The quiet walk, in spring tide, through the glade, At early dawn, when forest birds have made Yon grove harmonious with wild notes of glee. There, all unseen, I wander in the shade, To gaze on nature, in her charms arrayed, Mid hum of insects, and the murmuring bee; To breathe the freshness of the morning air, With odours, wafted from each budding tree, And opening wild flower, - rich beyond compare, In dewy lustre bright, and perfumed sweet as fair. Existence then is pleasure; and to be Suffices, in that joyous reverie Of waking dreams, and thoughts unknown to care. EVENING WAL K. I. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt BYRON. Nor less thy charms, O Nature! touch the heart Deem not such thoughts abstruse unknown to youth : Sense of Infinitude is to the mind Innate, essential, fixed, though undefined, Its fountain nature, and its issues truth. Man is not wholly flesh; but deep enshrined Lie powers illimitable, thoughts that dwell Native in man, and indestructible, The thoughts of boundless wisdom, goodness, power : Rays are they of divinity, a flame, That to the heavens aspiring, whence it came, New strength acquires with each revolving hour: Centre and source alike of worth and fame, Of all that, rising into good or great, Transcends the narrow bounds of mortal date. WALK IN WINTER. I. Mother severe of infinite delights. THOMPSON. Tis winter, and the mid-day's dazzling light Is flashing from the pure incrusted snow: Though cold, yet bracing, are the winds that blow, Grateful to youth, exulting in its might. |