blessing, the happy means of bestowing a calmness round the bed of death, and of attending the ransomed soul to the confines of eternity, where expectant angel-bands, with golden harps wreathed round with ever-blooming flowers, are making melody, and singing the "Lamb's Song." The passion of De Luc, the Natural Philosopher, for music, was so predominant in his latter days, that a piano was placed by his bedside, on which his daughter played great part of the day. The evening of his death, seeing her father ready to sink into a slumber, she asked him, "Shall I play any more?" "Keep playing," said he, "keep playing." He slept, but awoke no more. What a beautiful subject is this both for poet and painter !

It was in former ages a general opinion, and even now it is accredited by many, that soft, wave-like sounds of music are heard in the air at the departure of the soul from clay. Savouring of superstition as it does, yet is it one of those dear fancies, generated by the heart, having a close connection with holier things; it may be the result of an enthusiasm, urged on by a glowing imagination; nevertheless it is a spell, that has cheered many a weeping mourner by the couch of death. Something of this sentiment, perhaps, suggested itself to the mind of Pope, when penning the "Dying Christian to his Soul"

and again,

"Hark! they whisper; angels say,

Sister spirit come away:

66 my ears

With sounds seraphic ring."

But although music has such strong and potent charms-such powers over man,—yet there are hearts in the world, so callous and cold, as to close every inlet against its enrapturing melody; there are breasts so unfeeling, that they resemble a rock; bosoms as void of sympathy as the howling storm. Ask the poor Savoyard, who toils through the crowded thoroughfares or vacant courts of London, if this is not true. Your own experience will convince you it is. Many are the well-fed Pharisees, who would subscribe pounds for their cathedral music; which, much to the disgrace of England's hierarchy, is almost always carelessly and irreverently performed; yet would never bestow a thought, much more a coin, upon the ill-clad, though not defective minstrel, whose soul is poured out in accents of joy, as his eye rests on the splendid abode of Wealth; and he feasts his heart with "the hope of a rich reward." At the last great day, such shall condemn them; for we are certified by one, who errs not, that unless we possess charity, all else shall fail us; and consequently deep and dark will be the impress of guilt upon many a brow, made clear by the perfect light. GEORGE R. TWINN.

December 8th, 1843.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BY JOHN HOWDEN, B. A., TRANSLATOR OF "DANAE."

I THINK of thee when morning's light breaks on the eastern sky,—
When, at early prime, the blithesome lark with his carol soars on high;
When the silver bells of the morning dew hang bright on every tree;
When the opening flowers their odours sweet breathe forth unceasinglie;
I think of thee when the mavis pipes his song in greenwood free,
When the merry minstrel sings his fill.-Do'st ever think of me?

I think of thee at eventide, when day the world's forsaking;
When o'er fair ocean's golden wave its parting ray is breaking;
When the gentle flowers are all asleep beside the murmuring streams,
And the music of the waterfalls blends softly in their dreams;
When the lustrous stars dance round and round the moon in ecstasy,
And nature's self is hush'd in sleep.-Do'st ever think of me?

I think of thee when pain and grief upon my heart are weighing;
I think of thee when hope and joy around my head are playing;
I think of thee at matin-prime, when the fairy earth is dreaming;
I think of thee at eventide, when the pale stars soft are beaming;
When the songster pipes his parting note, then, then, I think on thee;-
But, ah! at morn or even, love, do'st ever think of me?

INDEX.