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A STRAIN OF MUSIC.
BY MRS. HEMANS,
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
MERCHANT or VENICE.
Oh! joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds! ye swell
and float, A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is pour'd on
every note; And yet my full o'erburthen'd heart grows troubled by
your power, And ye seem to press the long past years into one little If I have look'd on lovely scenes, that now I view no A summer sea, with glittering ships, along the moun tain shore,
[ing sky,– A ruin, girt with solemn woods, and a crimson evenYe bring me back those images fast as ye wander by. If in the happy walks and days of childhood I have
heard, And into childhood's memory link'd the musicofa bird; A bird that with the primrose came, and in the violet's
train,Ye give me that wild melody of early life again. Or if a dear and gentle voice, that now is chauged, or
gone, Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone, I find that murmur in your notes—they touch the
chords of thought, And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is
If I have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love
was bound: If I have watch'd the parting step of one who came
not back, The feeling of that moment wakes in your exulting
Yet on ye float !-the very air seems kindling with
Oh! do ye filing this mournful spell, sweet sounds!
alone on me? Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine doth now,
in sighs, To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies? I know not !-only this I know, that not by me on
earth, May the deep joy of song be found, untroubled in its
birth; It must be for a brighter life, for some immortal
sphere, Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter foun
BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY.
I fill this
cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon; To whom the better elements and kindly stars have
given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than
24 Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning
birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her
words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips
each flows As one may see the burthen'd bee forth issue from the
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her
hours; Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of
young flowers; And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she
appears The image of themselves by turns—the idol of past
Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on
the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long
remain; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's,
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.
The white pebbles lave,
As it crosses the wave.
Bounding from billow
To billow, the boat
On the waters to float;
Bear it smoothly along
Of the Gondolier's song.
And high on the stern
Stands the young and the brave,
The star-spangled wave,
Of water and grove
That are sacred to love.
His gold-hilted sword
At his bright belt is hung,
On his shoulder is flung,
That dances and plays
And rosary blaze.
The maid from her lattice
Looks down on the lake,
The bright billow break,