MUSIC'S POWER.
Music hath pow'r over all the world:
By the old and young 'tis prized.
'Tis loved by the great, 'tis loved by the small,
And by the middle-sized.
Music hath pow'r o'er the warrior stern,
In days of repose or of strife.
In battle, the bagpipe is passing sweet:
In peace, the drum and fife.
Music hath pow'r over ladye fair,
When stars thro' heav'n are straying;
And under her window her own true-love
On the hurdy-gurdy's playing.
Music hath power in the morn of life:
A pow'r not unfelt by any one.
No trumpet e'er sounds, in after-days,
So sweetly as youth's penny one.
Music hath pow'r in age to recall
Sweet thoughts of youth and home.
Oh! how my heart-strings crack to hear
A boy blow thro' a comb!
Music hath pow'r over shepherd and swain,
As, at eve, when the wood-dove moans,
He softly soothes his soul to repose
With the jew's-harp's tender tones.
Music hath pow'r in the solemn aisles,
A deep and a holy charm:
When the clerk, with a pitch-pipe symphony,
Strikes up the hundredth psalm.
Music hath pow'r in the Thespian halls:
I've been where thousands sate,
And heard a thousand pæans rise
To welcome "All round my hat."
Music hath pow'r in the city's din.
How passing sweet to list,
Amid the busy hum of men,
To the barrel-organist.
Music hath pow'r in the forum's walls,
'Mid the gay and giddy throng.
Oh! is there a heart that has not beat high
At the magic sound of the gong?
Music hath pow'r on the bright, blue lake.
Oh! how on thy lake, Geneva,
I've listen'd at eve to the far-off sound
Of the marrow-bone and cleaver!
Music hath pow'r on Hybla's hill,
When summer bees are humming;
And fair hands charm the insect band,
On frying-pan sweetly strumming.
Music hath pow'r when lady lips
Chant forth some simple ditty
Of blighted hope or hapless love:—
Providing the lady's pretty.
Music hath pow'r at morn's bright hour,
When the lark to heav'n's gate climbs.
And, at midnight, how sweet to hear "King Cole"
Play'd on the parish chimes!
Music hath pow'r 'neath the torrid zone,
Where love in his ardour is found;
And the heart of the Indian melts
At the tom-tom's am'rous sound.
Music hath pow'r on Greenland's ice;
When guileless hearts grow gladder,
And nimble feet rejoice at the sound
Of a dozen peas in a bladder.
Music hath pow'r over brutish hearts,
To shake them to their middle.
The nightingale dies on the poet's lute;
And a bear will dance to a fiddle.
Yes: music hath power o'er the wide, wide, world:
A power that's deep and endearing.
But music now has no power on me,
For I'm very hard of hearing.
DECEMBER.—Christmas Eve.
| DECEMBER. | [1837. | |
|---|---|---|
| "Last scene of all," that ends the year, | ||
| And ushers in brave Christmas cheer, | ||
| Come, deckt as thou wert wont to be, | ||
| In festive smiles and revelry, | ||
| With roasted beef and minced pies, | ||
| And pudding of gigantic size! | ||
| Fit emblem of our wealth's vast sum; | ||
| I'd be contented with a plum. | ||
| D. | Great Events and Odd Matters. | Prognostifications. |
| 1 | ||
| 2 | A RISING GENIUS. | about |
| 3 | Timothy Sly's own Epistle (not the Master's). | which time, |
| 4 | Dear Dick,—I copied my school letter to Father and Mother ten times before one was good enough, and while the teacher is putting the capitals and flourishes in I shall slip this off on the sly. Our examination was yesterday and the table was covered with books and things bound in gilt and silk for prizes but were all put away again and none of us got none only they awarded Master Key a new fourpenny bit for his essay on Locke because his friends live next door and little Coombe got the tooth-ake so they would not let him try his experiments on vital air which was very scurvy. It didnt come to my turn so I did not get a prize but as the company was to stop tea I put the cat in the water butt which they clean it out in the holidays and they will be sure to find her and we were all treated with tea and I did not like to refuse as they might have suspext something. Last night we had a stocking and bolster fight after we went to bed and I fougt a little lad with a big bolster his name is Bill Barnacle and I knocked his eye out with a stone in my stocking but no body knows who did it because we were all in the dark so I could not see no harm in it. Dear Dick send me directly your Wattses Hyms to show for I burnt mine and a lump of cobblers wax for the masters chair on breaking up day and some small shot to pepper the people with my quill gun and eighteen pence in coppers to shy at the windows as we ride through the villiage and make it one and ninepence for there's a good many as Ive a spite against yourself and meet me at the Elephant and Castle and if there's room on the coach you can get up for I want to give you some crackers to let off as soon as we get home while they are all a Kissing of me Your affectionate brother Timothy Sly. | ⚹ ♒ ☿ |
| 5 | many | |
| 6 | aldermen | |
| 7 | will be | |
| 8 | hung in | |
| 9 | chains; | |
| 10 | ||
| ☽ ♀ ♊ ♍ | ||
| 11 | ||
| a dreadful | ||
| 12 | ||
| doom! | ||
| 13 | ||
| 14 | ♂ ☽ ☌ ♏ | |
| 15 | ||
| but not | ||
| 16 | ||
| so dreadful | ||
| 17 | ||
| 18 | ♏ ⚹ | |
| 19 | ||
| as | ||
| 20 | ||
| their final | ||
| 21 | ||
| sentence, | ||
| 22 | ||
| viz. | ||
| 23 | ||
| 24 | ♄ ♃ ♂ ☉ | |
| 25 | Christmas Day. Grand Council of Nice. | |
| to be | ||
| 26 | ||
| 27 | anthropophagized, | |
| 28 | Innocents. Lamb's Holiday. Celebration of Lord Melbourne's acquittal. | |
| 29 |  | ♄ ♐ ♎ |
| 30 | or | |
| 31 | Silvester (Daggerwood?) | devoured! |