And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Then cold and hot, and moist and dry, From harmony, from heavenly harmony, From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot music raise and quell? Less than a God, they thought, there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion 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! 'tis 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, Depth of pains, and height of passion, But O, what art can teach, Orpheus could lead the savage race; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: LESSON CLIII. The Sailor's Mother. SOUTHEY. Woman. SIR, for the love of God, some small relief Traveller. Whither are you bound? 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, No house for miles around us, and the way Dreary and wild. The evening wind already Woman. Ay, sir, 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath:- Traveller. Nay, nay, cheer up! a little food and rest Woman. Sir, I am going To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt Traveller. He yet may live. But if the worse should chance, why, you must bear Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country, Remembers those who paid its price of blood, And with a noble charity relieves Woman. God reward them! God bless them! It will help me in my age. A dear good boy! When first he went to sea, If it be true that for a hurt like his There is no cure. Please God to spare his life, Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful! I can remember there was a blind man Lived in our village, one, from his youth up, Quite dark; and yet he was a merry man; Traveller. Of this be sure: His hurts are looked to well; and the best help as rightly is his dueEver at hand. How happened it he left you? Was a seafaring life his early choice? Woman. No, sir poor fellow ! - he was wise enough As any in the country. He was left A little boy, when his poor father died, And call his mother's name. We two were all; We bore up well. Sometimes afield. In the summer time I worked Then I was famed for knitting, And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed. Traveller. But how came it He chose to be a sailor? Woman. You shall hear, sir. As he grew up, he used to watch the birds In the corn, - child's work, you know, and easily done 'Tis an idle sort of task: so he built upon be A A little hut of wicker-work and clayand sit 619f Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain; 559 T And then he took, for very idleness, To making traps to catch the plunderers, -- All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, – Or crush them with its weight, - or else a spring |