A light-broke in upon my brain,-
It was the carol-of a bird;
It ceased, and then-it came-again,
The sweetest song-ear ever heard;
And mine-was thankful-till my eyes
Ran over-with the glad surprise;
But then-by dull degrees-came back
My senses to their wonted track;
I saw the dungeon walls-and floor
Close slowly round me-as before;
I saw the glimmer-of the-sun,
Creeping-as it before had done;

But through-the crevice-where it came-
That bird-was perched-as fond—and tame,
And tamer-than upon the

tree,-
A lovely bird-with azure wings,
And song-that—said a thousand-things,
And seemed to say them all-for-me!

I sometimes-deemed that it might be
My brother's soul-come down to me;
But then at last-away it flew,—
And then 't was mortal,-well—I knew,
For he would never thus have flown,
And left me twice-so doubly lone.

A kind of change-came in my fate;
My keepers-grew compassionate.
I know not what had made them so,
They were inured-to sights of woe;
But so it was;-my broken chain
With links-unfastened—did remain;
And it was liberty-to stride
Along my cell, from side to side,
Avoiding only, as I trod,

My brothers' graves-without a sod.

I made a footing—in the wall,—

It was not therefrom to escape,

For I had buried one-and all

Who loved me—in a human shape,

And the whole earth-would-henceforth—be

A wider prison unto me;

But I was curious to ascend

To my barr'd windows, and to bend

Once more upon the mountains high-
The quiet-of a loving eye.

I saw them, and they were the same,

They were not changed-like me-in frame;

I saw their thousand years of snow-
On high, their wide long lake-below;
And then-there was a little isle,
Which-in my very face did smile,
The only one-in view.

The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seemed joyous, each—and all;
The eagle-rode the rising blast,—
Methought-he never flew so fast
As then-to me-he seemed to fly;
And then-new tears-came in my eye,
And I felt troubled,—and would fain
I had not left my recent chain;
And when I did descend again,
The darkness-of my dim abode
Fell on me-as a heavy load;
It was-as is a new-dug grave
Closing o'er one-we sought to save.

At last-men came-to set us free,

I asked not why, and recked not where,
It was at length-the same-to me,
Fettered-or fetterless-to be;

I learned to love despair.

And thus, when they appeared-at last,
And all my bonds-aside were cast,
These heavy walls-to me-had grown
A hermitage, and all-my own!
And half I felt-as they were come
To tear me-from a second home!
With spiders-I had friendship made,
And watched them-in their sullen trade,-
Had seen the mice-by moonlight play,
And why should I-feel less than they?
We were all inmates-of one place,
And I, the monarch—of each race,
Had power to kill,—yet, strange to tell!

In quiet-we had learned to dwell;
My very chains-and I-grew friends,
So much-a long communion-tends
To make us what we are:-Even I-
Regained-my freedom-with a sigh.

MUSIC.

Of music what shall be said? Some friend and enthusiast says: "Why, it is sound and harmony that please the senses and stir up pleasant emotions!" But, my friend, hear Lady Eastlake: "It is a strange thing, the subtle form and condition of music. When the composer has conceived it in his mind, the music itself is not there; when he has committed it to paper, it is still not

there; when he has called together his orchestra and choristers from north and south, it is there-but gone again when they disperse. It has always, as it were, to put on mortality afresh. It is ever being born anew, but to die away, and leave only dead notes and dumb instruments behind." Is the exquisite presence, then, easily definable? We believe both music and poetry are spiritual essences which touch spiritual springs in our being, and that, though we feel and appreciate them, they are too ethereal for outward sense, and must forever be buried in the depths of emotion and sensation, only to be fully understood when this mind bursts its material bonds, and reaches up into the world where poetry and music must be living, visible presences. With this belief, have we not the evidence of the better life constantly within us?

MUSIC OF THE OCEAN.

"And the people of this place say that at certain seasons beautiful music is heard from the ocean."-Mavor's Voyages.

Lonely-and wild-it rose,

That strain of solemn music-from the sea,
As though the bright air trembled-to disclose
An ocean mystery.

Again—a low, sweet tone,—

(Fainting-in murmurs-on the listening day,)
Just bade the excited thought-its presence own,—
Then-died away.

Once more-the gush of sound,—
(Struggling-and swelling-from the heaving plain,)
Thrilled a rich peal—triumphantly around,
And fled again.

O boundless deep! we know

Thou hast strange wonders—in thy gloom concealed,
Gems, flashing gems,-from whose unearthly glow-
Sunlight-is sealed.

And an eternal spring

Showers her rich colors-with unsparing hand,
Where coral trees-their graceful branches fling
O'er golden sand.

But tell,-O restless main!

Who are the dwellers-in thy world beneath,
That thus the watery realm-can not contain
The joy-they breathe?

Emblem-of glorious might!

Are thy wild children-like thyself arrayed,
Strong-in immortal-and unchecked delight,
Which can not fade?

Or-to mankind allied,

Toiling with woe-and passion's fiery sting,
Like their own homes,-where storms-or peace preside,
As the winds bring?

Alas, for human thought!

How does it flee existence,-worn—and old,
To win companionship—with beings-wrought
Of finer mold!

'Tis vain-the reckless waves

Join with loud revel-the dim ages flown,
But keep each secret—of their hidden caves
Dark-and unknown.

MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. J. NEAL.

There are harps that complain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone

In a near and unchangeable tone

Like winds full of sound that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
And breathed out a blessing-and flown!

Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night,
To the breezes of night alone;

Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright
The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light,

Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair
And flourishing robe on the edge of the air!
Burning crimson and gold

On the clouds that unfold,

Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides
On his right and his left;-so the Thunderer rides
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides,
Rolling on and erect in a charioting throne!

Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day,

That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night.
There are hautboys and flutes too forever at play
When the evening is near, and the sun is away,
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are played-
By spirits unseen and unknown,

But thick as the stars, all this music is made;
And these flutes alone,

In one sweet, dreamy tone,

Are ever blown

Forever and forever.

The livelong night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round
In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-music falls
And rival minstrels meet.

VOCAL MUSIC.

In vocal music there is a union of music and language the language of affection and thought; which includes the whole man. Poetry and music are sister arts; their relationship being one of heaven-like intimacy. The essence of poetry consists in fine perceptions and vivid expressions of that subtle and mysterious analogy that exists between the physical and moral world; and it derives its power from the correspondence of natural things with spiritual. Its effect is to elevate the thoughts and affections toward a higher state of existence.

THE MUSIC OF CHILDHOOD. JEAN INGELOW.

When I hear the waters fretting,

When I see the chestnut letting

All her lovely blossoms falter down, I think, “Alas the day!”
Once, with magical sweet singing,

Blackbirds set the woodland ringing,

That wakes no more while April hours wear themselves away.
In our hearts fair hope lay smiling,

Sweet as air, and all beguiling:

And there hung a mist of blue-bells on the slope and down the dell:
And we talked of joy and splendor

That the years unborn would render,

And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well,

Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming,

April's here and summer's coming;

Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy.
Think on us in alleys shady

When you step a graceful lady;

For no fairer days have we to hope for, little girl and boy.

"Laugh and play, O lisping waters,

Lull our downy sons and daughters;

Come, O wind, and rock thy leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy;
When they wake, we'll end the measure

With a wild sweet cry of pleasure,

And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry, little girl and boy.'"

A LADY SINGING. PARSONS.

Oft as my lady sang for me

The song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea,
Of the grave on the rock and the cypress tree,
Strange was the pleasure that over me stole,

For 't was made of old sadness that lives in my soul.

So still grew my heart at each tender word
That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred,
And I hardly breathed, but only heard:
Where was I?-Not in the world of men,
Until she awoke me with silence again.