New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1848-04-03
MUSIC. -. For The Tribune.


From its slambers IN the rock,
On the mountain quick replies
With its solemn my steries
Hail. Enchan.ress, ali divine
In the rich saloon where Art
Cousregates the sacred Nine
To soothe and fascinate the heart
Az thy magic chords do qui,er
Love avakens like river,
Swelling toward the azure sea
And the breast Of man and maiden
Thrills with gentle rapture laden
All 10 fall Of love and thee.
Mellow fate and soft guitar,
Violin Of power sublime,
Harp Of yore. whose strains afar
Wal adown the stream Of time,
Yours il IL 10 wake 10 light
Eyes with weeping wet
To chain the demons Of the night,
And win as TO forget
To charm with concords Of the best
Mans spirit into rest.
Night. gentle night the moon is high
And shows her silver bowl
And wizard Nature, main and sky,
Holds converse with the soul
Breathing of music which no ear
or mortal mold could ever hear.
A rustic in the green wood calls
The fancy from cerulean halls
And mid the perfumes OF the plain,
Gently floats
In amber notes,
A soft and sad KoIian strain
Whippowil whippowil
And ali is still
Again from yonder solemn hight,
asAdeet Of the eOugs of night
Bursts the strain; and wilder, clearer
Through the garden, Der the lake,
Svells in numbers drear and drearer,
Az though the minstrel's heart would
TIL the soDgster from his rest. break ;
Sinking on bis throbbing breast,
Trembling lies
As he signs,
Whppowill whippowill
WhipPowil
Anon the morning dew is bright,
Sparkling in the saffron light
OF the sun,
A. he lies upon the trees,
Glowing from the arms OF night
Bursts the clouds and wakes the breeze,
Gilds the vapor Of the seas
Rolling dun.
Hail, robin, with thy household notes,
And all the other little threats
That welcome in the dawn
Day, with its most exquisite dyes,
Rejoices all our happy eyes
While you rejoice the lawn.
And yonder skins the russell lark,
As first the day star warns the dark,
Through the empurpled skies
Waiting joyous music Ger
Tower and valley. bill and shore,
In triumph as he flies.
The voice of war is on the morn,
And music with rare array
Of drum and fife and bugle horn,
Adds to the proud display:
Waking the soul to martial fire,
And rousing all a nations ire;
ConcealiDg from our conscious fears
Our future, with it's tears.
We witness but the fash Of steel,
The champing steed simp patient neigh
And see the squsdrons as they wheel
And hear the trumpets bray.
The hour when perish man and horse,
The sweat, the blood, the mangled corse,
And womans lid despairing signs,
Are hidden from our eyes.
But bark from yonder massive pile,
FROM fretted arch and columned aisle,
A nournful symphony ascends
And with the still cir blends.
And mid its cadeDces are heard
A stifled sob, hurried word,
Unbidden gushing from the smarts
or broken hearts.
But now hundred tongues conspire;
Louder and louder swells the strain
And with bold impassioned fire
The organ peas amain
And harmony ike sea-waves gushes,
while the vast temple jars,
And in tide Of glory rushes
Up to the stars.
And thus the funeral dirge is sung.
Thus Music soothes our troublous way,
Concealing sorrows till they come,
And then dissolving them away
But always pointing to light
Beyond our day, beyond our night
And whispering Of other groves
And other loves,
And Music we can almost hear,
or glorious concords, and sphere
OF Beauty. which is very nigh
In the cerulean sky