Part 10 (1/2)

CLXXIV.

And envying the loud playfulness and mirth Of those who pa.s.s'd him, gay in youth and hope, He took at Jupiter a s.h.i.+lling's worth Of gazing, through the showman's telescope; Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears, He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres.

CLXXV.

He was mistaken, it was no such thing, 'Twas Yankee Doodle play'd by Scudder's band; He mutter'd, as he linger'd listening, Something of freedom and our happy land; Then sketch'd, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song--his saddest, and his last.

I.

Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind That lulls a morning dream.

And there are angel voices heard, In childhood's frolic hours, When life is but an April day Of suns.h.i.+ne and of showers.

II.

There's music in the forest leaves When summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forest girls That braid their sunny hair.

The first wild bird that drinks the dew, From violets of the spring, Has music in his song, and in The fluttering of his wing.

III.

There's music in the dash of waves When the swift bark cleaves their foam; There's music heard upon her deck, The mariner's song of home, When moon and star beams smiling meet At midnight on the sea-- And there is music--once a week In Scudder's balcony.

IV.

But the music of young thoughts too soon Is faint, and dies away, And from our morning dreams we wake To curse the coming day.

And childhood's frolic hours are brief, And oft in after years Their memory comes to chill the heart, And dim the eye with tears.

V.

To-day, the forest leaves are green, They'll wither on the morrow, And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long To the widow's wail of sorrow.

Come with the winter snows, and ask Where are the forest birds?

The answer is a silent one, More eloquent than words.

VI.

The moonlight music of the waves In storms is heard no more, When the living lightning mocks the wreck At midnight on the sh.o.r.e, And the mariner's song of home has ceased, His corse is on the sea-- And music ceases when it rains In Scudder's balcony.

THE RECORDER.

THE RECORDER.

A PEt.i.tION.

BY THOMAS CASTALY.

Dec. 20, 1828.

”On they move In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood Of flutes and soft RECORDERS.”

_Milton._

”Live in Settles numbers one day more!”

_Pope._