The American Union Speaker Part 36

Speak gently, kindly to the poor; Let no harsh tone be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word.

Speak gently to the erring;--know They must have toiled in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so;-- O! win them back again.

Speak gently! He who gave His life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were fierce with strife, Said to them, "Peace! be still."

Speak gently: 't is a little thing Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy which it may bring, Eternity shall tell.

Anonymous.

CCII.

THE Pa.s.sIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Pa.s.sions oft, to hear her sh.e.l.l, Thronged around her magic cell

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:

Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They s.n.a.t.c.hed her instruments of sound,

And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rustled, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair-- Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure?

Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all the song; And, where her sweetest notes she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;--

And longer had she sung:--but with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: He threw the blood-stained sword in thunder down; And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!

And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And, though sometimes, each dreamy pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed: Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild, sequestered seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!-- The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crowned Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best.

They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unworried minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:-- Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;-- And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

W. Collins.

CCIII.

NEW ENGLAND.

Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, A fearless host: No slave is here--our unchained feet Walk freely, as the waves that beat Our coast.

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave To seek this sh.o.r.e; They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave;-- With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; But souls like these, such toils impelled To soar.

Hail to the acorn, when first they stood.

On Bunker's height, And, fearless stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight!

O! 't was a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light.

There is no other land like thee, No dearer sh.o.r.e; Thou art the shelter of the free; The home, the port of liberty Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon Thy land, shall mother curse the son She bore.

Thou art the firm unshaken rock, On which we rest; And rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppressed: All, who the wreath of freedom twine, Beneath the shadow of their vine Are blest.

We love thy rude and rocky sh.o.r.e, And here we stand-- Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, And storm our land: They still shall find, our lives are given To die for home;--and leant on Heaven Our hand.

J. G. Percival.

CCIV.

SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony, to harmony, Through all the compa.s.s of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.

What pa.s.sion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded sh.e.l.l His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a G.o.d they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that sh.e.l.l That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What pa.s.sion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat Of the thundering drum, Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of pa.s.sion For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred Organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; When to her Organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared-- Mistaking earth for heaven!

As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on highs The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky.

J. Dryden.

CCV.

THE SAILOR'S SONG.