At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound Rose like a steam of rich distill'd perfumes, And stole upon the air, that ev'n silence
Was took ere she was 'ware, and wish'd she might Deny her nature and be never more, Still to be so displac'd. I was all ear
And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of death.
Music has charms to soothe the savage breast, To soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak.
Congreve's Mourning Bride.
I'll think no more on't.
Give me some music; look that it be sad.
itself is cheer'd with music:
It wakes a glad remembrance of our youth,
Calls back past joys, and warms us into transport. Rowe's Fair Penitent, a. 2, s. 1.
Though cheerfulness and I have long been strangers, Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me.
There's sure no passion in the human soul,
But finds its food in music.
Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad, The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay, And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep.
Joanna Baillie's Basil, a. 2, s. 4.
I thank thee; this shall be our daily song.
It cheers my heart, altho' these foolish tears
Seem to disgrace its sweetness.
Joanna Baillie's Beacon, a. 1, s. 2.
She told me of a mermaid once, that lay Along the scooped side of a hollow wave, Singing such dulcet music, that the ear, Like a wooed damsel, trembled with delight.
Perhaps the breath of music
May prove more eloquent than my poor words: It is the medicine of the breaking heart.
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment-born and dying With the blest tone that made me !
Byron's Manfred, a. 1, s. 2.
There is a charm, a power, that sways the breast; Bids every passion revel or be still;
Inspires with rage, or all our cares dissolves; Can soothe distraction, and almost despair.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. 4.
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, Expels diseases, softens every pain, Subdues the rage of poison and of plague.
Yet what is music, and the blended power Of voice with instruments of wind and string? What but an empty pageant of sweet noise? 'Tis past and all that it has left behind
Is but an echo dwelling in the ear
Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,
A void and countless hour in life's brief day. Crowe.
But hark! the village clock strikes nine-the chimes Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense
Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make False-measured melody on crazy bells. O wondrous power of modulated sound! Which like the air (whose all obedient shape Thou mak'st thy slave) canst subtily pervade The yielded avenues of sense, unlock The close affections, by some fairy path Winning an easy way through every ear, And with thine unsubstantial quality Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all; All, but some cold and sullen-tempered spirits, Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleas'd With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave. Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touched within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet! now dying all away, Now pealing loud again and louder still, Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on. With easy force it opens all the cells
Where mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the scene recurs, And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
In contemplation of created things
By steps we may ascend to God.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 5,
Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor; Who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
Young's Night Thoughts, n. 6. Who can paint
Like nature? Can imagination boast, Amid its gay creation, hues like hers? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears
In every bud that blows? Thomson's Seasons-Spring..
Nature! great parent! whose unceasing hand Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year, How mighty, how majestic, are thy works! With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul! That sees astonish'd! and astonish'd sings!
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween, His rude expression and untutor'd airs, Beyond the power of language, will unfold The form of beauty smiling at his heart, How lovely! how commanding!
Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination, b. 3.
How oft upon yon eminence, our pace Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew, While admiration feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!
Thus nature works as if to mock at art, And in defiance of her rival pow'rs;
By these fortuitous and random strokes Performing such inimitable feats,
As she with all her rules can never reach.
An echo in the heart. This flesh doth thrill And has connexion by some unseen chain With its original source and kindred substance. The mighty forest, the proud tides of ocean, Sky-cleaving hills, and in the vast of air, The starry constellations; and the sun, Parent of life exhaustless-these maintain With the mysterious mind and breathing mould A co-existence and community. Sir A. Hunt's Julian.
The rabble gather round the man of news, And listen with their mouths wide open; some Tell, some hear, some judge of news, some make it, And he that lies most loud, is most believed.
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder bridge That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks, News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. Cowper's Task, b. 4.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
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