MUSIC.
Sing unto Him a new song; play skilfully with a loud noise.—Psalm xxxiii. 3.
Praise Him with the sound of the trumpet: praise Him with the psaltery and harp.—Psalm cl. 3.
Cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music.—Daniel, iii. 5.
That chant to the sound of the viol, and invent to themselves instruments of music like David.—Amos, vi. 5.
How sour sweet music is
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the music of men’s lives.
Shakspere.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced choir below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstacies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
Milton.
The church triumphant, and the church below,
In songs of praise their present union show;
Their joys are full; our expectation long,
In life we differ, but we join the song.
Angels and we, assisted by this art,
May sing together, though we dwell apart.
Waller.
Hark! the organs blow
Their swelling notes ’round the cathedral’s dome,
And grace the harmonious choir, celestial feast
To pious ears, and med’cine of the mind!
The thrilling trebles, and the manly base,
Join in accordance meet, and with one voice
All to the sacred subject suit their song;
While in each breast sweet melancholy reigns,
Angelically pensive, till the joy
Improves and purifies.
Smart.
Born on the swelling notes, our soul aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And angels lean from Heaven to hear.
Pope.
Should the well-meant songs I leave behind,
With Jesus’ lovers an acceptance find,
’Twill heighten even the joys of Heaven, to know
That in my verse the saints hymn God below.
Bishop Ken.
The song of Zion is a tasteless thing,
Unless when rising on a joyful wing,
The soul can mix with the celestial bands,
And give the strain the compass it demands.
Cowper.
How shall the harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tone of prophet-years—
A spell divine o’er guilt’s perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul:—O, who may now recall
The mighty music’s consecrated reign?—
Spirit of God! whose glory once o’erhung
A throne, the Ark’s dread cherubim between,
So let Thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O’er those two powers by whom the harp is strung—
Feeling and thought!—till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.
Mrs. Hemans.
O, surely melody from Heaven was sent
To cheer the soul, when tired with human strife,
To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged road of life.
Kirke White.
O, what a gentle ministrant is music
To piety—to mild, to penitent piety!
O, it gives plumage to the tardy prayer
That lingers in our lazy, earthly air,
And melts with it to Heaven.
H. H. Milman.
Music, the tender child of rudest times,
The gentle native of all lands and climes;
Who hymns alike man’s cradle and his grave,
Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave.
Mrs. Norton.
’Tis He that taught the lark, from earth upspringing,
To warble forth his matin strain;
And the pure stream, in liquid gushes singing,
Gladly to bless the thirsty plain;
And from the laden bee, when homeward winging
Its tuneful flight doth not disdain,
To hear the song of praise.
There’s not a voice in Nature, but is telling
(If we will hear that voice aright,)
How much, when human hearts with love are swelling,
His blessed bosom hath delight
In our rejoicing lays.
His love, that never slumbers,
Taught thee those tuneful numbers.
Bethune.
But O, 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 mantles 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,
That 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.
Hannah F. Gould.
The solemn hymn to ancient music set
In many a heart response of memory met.
To me, it seemed departed Sabbaths hung
Upon those notes, which gave the past a tongue
To speak again in voices from the dead,
And wake an echo from their silent bed.
Elizabeth Bogart.