BEAUTY. I. Oh! brighter than the brightest star, II. Oh! lovely as the golden ray Of sunshine sleeping on the glade, When morning brightens into day, And in its radiance melts the shade; And lovelier than that gorgeous sun, III. But beauty shines not, may not shine, Nor does she in a smile recline, Blooming, as flowerets do, to die. All earth-born charms shall fade in death, Nor change nor ruin beauty hath. IV. She dwells but in the pious mind, Where lives the light of heavenly kind, William Anderson. DISSENSION FROM CALUMNY. Alas! they had been friends in youth; With Rowland and Sir Leoline. And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted-ne'er to meet again! To free the hollow heart from paining- But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, The marks of that which once hath been. MUSIC. Coleridge. Nay, tell me not of lordly halls! My Minstrels are the trees, The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls, Earth's sounds my symphonies. There's music sweeter to my soul In the weed by the wild wind fanned In the heave of the surge, than ever stole From mortal minstrel's hand. There's mighty music in the roar Of the oaks on the mountain's side, When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar, And the lightnings flash blue and wide. There's mighty music in the swell Of Winter's midnight waveWhen all above is the thunder peal, And all below is the grave. There's music in the city's hum, There's music in the mournful swing And think of the spirit upon the wing There's music in the forest-stream, As it plays through the deep ravine, Where never Summer's breath or beam Has pierced its woodland screen. There's music in the thundering sweep Of the mountain waterfall, As its torrents struggle, and foam, and leap, From the brow of its marble wall. There's music in the dawning morn, Ere the lark his pinion dries 'Tis the rush of the breeze through the dewy cornThrough the garden's perfumed dyes. There's music on the twilight cloud, There's music in the depth of night, When the world is still and dim, And the stars flame out in their pomp Like thrones of the Cherubim ! of light, Anon. |