Music

Music? A blessed angel! She was born
Within the palace of the King of kings—
A favorite near his throne. In that glad child
Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits one;
And her, the heir to everlasting life!
When his bright hosts would give him highest praise,
They send her forward with her dulcet voice,
To pour their holy rapture in his ear.
When the young earth to being started forth,
Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven.
A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed
With living waters; and the sparkling cup
For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink.

While o'er her brow a tender halo shone,
Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined
Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear,
The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips
The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them.
Dropped o'er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid
Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye;
But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went,
At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast,
And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep,
With one fair hand thrown o'er its silent strings,
Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre,
To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed
Of the sweet uses she might make of it
To numbers yet untried.

When, suddenly,
A shout of joy from all the sons of God,
Rang through his courts: and then the thrilling call,
"Wake! sister Music, wake, and hail with us,
A new-created sphere!"

She woke! She rose—
She moved among the morning stars, and gave
The birth-song of a world.

Our infant globe,
With life's first pulse, rolled in its ether bed,
Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon,
Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays:
Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched
Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here,
And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade,
Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower.
As earth, on every side, shone fair to heaven,
Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained,
Music, from her celestial walks looked down,
And thonght, how sweetly she could wake the hills,
Sing through the silent forests—in the vales—
Beside the silver waters pour her sounds;
And multiply her numbers by the rocks!
She longed to give it voice to speak to God;
And, being told of her blest ministry,
Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings
Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised,
And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight.

Made viewless by the circumambient air,
And scattering voices to its feathered tribes,
As down she hastened to the shining sphere,
The happy angel reached the beauteous earth.
At her electric touch, young nature smiled,
And kindled into rapture; then broke forth
With thousand, thousand songs.

The green turf woke;
The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore,
The busy bee, upon his honeyed flower.
Osier and reed became Eolian lyres.
Trees bore sweet minstrels; while rock, hill, and dell
Sang to each other in a joyous round.
MAN, that mysterious instrument of God,
When the warm soul of new-descended power
Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice,
Chanting, "JEHOVAH!"

Since that blessed hour,
While still her home is heaven, Music has ne'er
This darkened world forsaken. She delights,
Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace,
To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart;
And lends her wings to waft it to the skies.

She throws a lustre o'er Devotion's face—
Drinks off the tear from Sorrow's languid eye—
Tames wild Despair—brings Hope a brighterbloom—
Lulls Hate to rest—Love's ruffled bosom smooths;
Pours honey into many a bitter cup;
And often gives the black and heavy hour
A downy breast and pinions tipped with light.

She steals all balmy through the prisoner's grates,
Making that sad one half forget their use.
With holy spell she binds the exile's heart,
And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds.
Kings are her lovers—cottagers her loves:
The hero and the pilgrim walk with her.
Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy,
And from the pillow of the dying saint,
When a glad spirit borrows her light wings
To practise for the skies, ere it unfolds
Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay.

True, by man's wanderings for his tempter's lure,
Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet
For purity like hers; and made to bear
Unhallowed burdens; or, to join in rites
To turpitude in fellest places held.
Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailed
O'er all things staining, still defies a stain;
And is at night withdrawn, and girded up,
Warm and untarnished for the morning skies—
She comes unsullied from her baser walks,
Sighs at the darkness, guilt and wo of earth;
Breathes Zion's air, and, warmed with heavenly, fire,
Mounts to her glorious home!

'T was she, who bore
The first grand offering of the free, on high,
When to the shore, through Egypt's solemn sea,
The franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod,
And paeans gave to their Deliverer there.
She cheered the wanderers on; and when they crossed
Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe,
Still she was with them; and her single breath
Laid the proud Painim's city-walls in dust!

In native light, she walked Judea's hills,
And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower
Before the Sun of righteousness arose.

The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips,
Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess,
To lift the heart's pure gift from her's to Heaven.

When Israel's king was troubled, her soft hand
Put close, but gently, to his gloomy breast,
Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still,
Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept.
And since, her countless thousands she has brought
To heaven's mild kingdom, happy captives led,
By those sweet glowing strings of David's lyre.

But oh! her richest, dearest notes to man,
In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured,
When HE, whose brightness is the light of heaven,
To earth descending for a mortal's form,
Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark,
That moved through space, and o'er the infant hung,
He summoned Music to attend him here,
Announcing peace below!

He called her, too,
To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine
Her mantle round him, and his few, grieved friends
To join their mournful spirits with the hymn,
Ere to the Mount of Olives he went out
So sorrowful.

And now, his blessed word,
A sacred pledge, is left to dying man,
Then at his second coming in his power,
Music shall still be with him; and her voice
Sound through the tombs and wake the dead to life!