dreams and fables of pagan mythology, to the wonders said to be
performed by the lyre of Amphion and the harp of Orpheus,--I might place
before you the prophet of Jehovah, composing his ruffled spirits by the
soothing influence of music, that he might be suitably prepared to
receive a message from the Lord of Hosts. I might present to your view
the evil spirit, by which jealous and melancholy Saul was afflicted,
flying, baffled and defeated, from the animating and harmonious tones of
David's harp. I might show you the same David, the defender and avenger
of his flock, the champion and bulwark of his country, the conqueror of
Goliah, the greatest warrior and monarch of his age, laying down the
sword and the sceptre to take up his harp, and exchanging the titles of
victor and king for the more honorable title of the sweet Psalmist of
Israel.--But I appear not before you as her advocate; for in that
character my exertions would be superfluous. She is present to speak for
herself, and assert her own claims to our notice and approbation. You
have heard her voice in the performances of this evening; and those of
you, whom the God of nature has favored with a capacity of feeling and
understanding her eloquent language, will, I trust, acknowledge that she
has pleaded her own cause with triumphant success; has given sensible
demonstration, that she can speak, not only to the ear, but to the
heart; and that she possesses irresistible power to soothe, delight, and
fascinate the soul. Nor was it to the senses alone that she spake; but
while, in harmonious sounds, she maintained her claims, and asserted her
powers; in a still and small but convincing voice, she addressed herself
directly to reason and conscience, proclaiming the most solemn and
important truths; truths which perhaps some of you did not hear or
regard, but which deserve and demand our most serious attention.--With
the same irresistible evidence as if an angel had spoken from heaven,
she said, There is a God--and that God is good and benevolent. For, my
friends, who but God could have tuned the human voice, and given harmony
to sounds? Who, but a good and benevolent God, would have given us
senses capable of perceiving and enjoying this harmony? Who, but such a
being, would have opened a way through the ear, for its passage to the
soul? Could blind chance have produced these wonders of wisdom? or a
malignant being these miracles of goodness? Could they have caused this
admirable fitness between harmony of sounds, and the organs of sense by
which it is perceived? No. They would have either given us no senses, or
left them imperfect, or rendered every sound discordant and harsh. With
the utmost propriety, therefore may Jehovah ask, Who hath made man's
mouth, and planted the ear? Have not I, the Lord? With the utmost
justice, also, may he demand of us, that all our musical powers and
faculties should be consecrated to his service, and employed in
celebrating his praises. To urge you diligently and cheerfully to
perform this pleasing, reasonable, and indispensable duty, is the
principal object of the speaker. Not, then, as the advocate of music,
but as the ambassador of that God, whose being and benevolence, music
proclaims, do I now address this assembly, entreating every individual,
without delay, to adopt and practise the resolution of the royal
Psalmist--_I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live; I will sing
praise to my God while I have my being._ Psa. civ. 33.
In your imagination go back to the origin of the world, when, every
thing was very good, and all creation harmonized together. All its
parts, animate and inanimate, like the voices and instruments of a well
regulated concert, helped to compose a perfect and beautiful whole; and
so exquisite was the harmony thus produced, that in the whole compass of
creation, not one jarring or discordant note was heard, even by the
perfect ear of God himself.--The blessed angels of light began the
universal chorus, "when the morning stars sang together, and all the
sons of God shouted for joy."
* * * * *
Of this universal concert, man was appointed the terrestrial leader, and
was furnished with natural and moral powers, admirably fitted for this
blessed and glorious employment. His body, exempt from dissolution,
disease, and decay, was like a perfect and well-strung instrument, which
never gave forth a false or uncertain sound, but always answered, with
exact precision, the wishes of his nobler part, the soul. His heart did
not then belie his tongue, when he sung the praises of his Creator; but
all the emotions felt by the one were expressed by the other, from the
high notes of ecstatic admiration, thankfulness, and joy, down to the
deep tones of the most profound veneration and humility. In a word, his
heart was the throne of celestial love and harmony, and his tongue at
once the organ of their will, and the sceptre of their power.
We are told, in ancient story, of a statue, formed with such wonderful
art, that, whenever it was visited by the rays of the rising sun, it
gave forth, in honor of that luminary, the most melodious and ravishing
sounds. In like manner, man was originally so constituted, by skill
divine, that, whenever he contemplated the rays of wisdom, power, and
goodness, emanating from the great Sun of the moral system, the ardent
emotions of his soul spontaneously burst forth in the most pure and
exalted strains of adoration and praise. Such was the world, such was
man, at the creation. Even in the eye of the Creator, all was good; for,
wherever he turned, he saw only his own image, and heard nothing but his
own praises. Love beamed from every countenance; harmony reigned in
every breast, and flowed mellifluous from every tongue; and the grand
chorus of praise, begun by raptured seraphs round the throne, and heard
from heaven to earth, was reechoed back from earth to heaven; and this
blissful sound, loud as the archangel's trump, and sweet as the melody
of his golden harp, rapidly spread, and was received from world to
world, and floated, in gently-undulating waves, even to the farthest
bounds of creation.
To this primeval harmony, a lamentable contrast followed, when sin
untuned the tongues of angels, and changed their blissful songs of
praise into the groans of wretchedness, the execrations of malignity,
the blasphemies of impiety, and the ravings of despair. Storms and
tempests, earthquakes and convulsions, fire from above, and deluges from
beneath, which destroyed the order of the natural world, proved that its
baleful influence had reached our earth, and afforded a faint emblem of
the jars and disorders which sin had introduced into the moral system.
Man's corporeal part, that lyre of a thousand strings, tuned by the
finger of God himself, destined to last as long as the soul, and to be
her instrument in offering up eternal praise, was, at one blow,
shattered, unstrung, and almost irreparably ruined. His soul, all whose
powers and faculties, like the chords of an Æolian harp, once
harmoniously vibrated to every breath of the divine Spirit, and ever
returned a sympathizing sound to the tones of kindness and love from a
fellow-being, now became silent, and insensible to melody, or produced
only the jarring and discordant notes of envy, malice, hatred, and
revenge. The mouth, filled with cursing and bitterness, was set against
the heavens; the tongue was inflamed with the fire of hell. Every voice,
instead of uniting in the song of "Glory to God in the highest," was now
at variance with the voices around it, and, in barbarous and dissonant
strains, sung praise to itself, or was employed in muttering sullen
murmurs against the Most High--in venting slanders against
fellow-creatures--in celebrating and deifying some worthless idol, or in
singing the triumphs of intemperance, dissipation, and excess. The noise
of violence and cruelty was heard mingled with the boasting of the
oppressor, and the cry of the oppressed, and the complaints of the
wretched; while the shouts of embattled hosts, the crash of arms, the
brazen clangor of trumpets, the shrieks of the wounded, the groans of
the dying, and all the horrid din of war, together with the wailings of
those whom it had rendered widows and orphans, overwhelmed and drowned
every sound of benevolence, praise and love. Such is the jargon which
sin has introduced--such the discord which, from every quarter of our
globe, has long ascended up into the ears of the Lord of hosts.
THE BLUSH.
By Mrs. Elizabeth Smith.
The soft warm air scarcely stirred the leaves of the vine, that
clustered about the bower of Eve, as she lay with pale cheek and languid
limbs, her first born daughter resting upon her breast. Adam had led his
sons to the field, that their sports might not disturb the repose of our
first mother, and the low murmur of the tiny cascade, the monotonous hum
of insects, and happy twitter of unfledged birds, all wooed her to
slumber; yet she slept not. She looked with a mother's deep unutterable
love upon the face of her babe, yet tears were in her eye, and anxiety
upon her brow. Herself the last, the perfection of the Creator's
workmanship, she still marvelled at the surprising beauty of her
daughter. She looked into its dark liquid eye, and drank deep from the
fountain of maternal love. She pressed its small foot and hand to her
lips, hugged it to her full heart, and felt again the bitterness of
transgression. She thought of Paradise, whence she had expelled her
children. She thought of generations to come, who might curse her for
their misery. She thought of the sweet beauty of her child on whom she
had entailed sorrow, suffering and temptation. She felt it murmuring at
the fountain of life while it stretched its little hand to her lips. She
turned aside the thick leaves of the grape vine, and looked out upon the
still blue sky, over which, scarcely moved the white thin clouds. "My
daughter," she faintly articulated, "thou knowest not the evil I have
done thee. Let these bitter tears attest my penitence. Let me teach thee
so to live, that thou mayst hereafter obtain in another world the
Paradise thou hast lost in this--lost by thy mother's guilt. O, my
daughter, would that I alone might suffer, that the whole wrath of my
offended Creator might fall on my head and thou, and such as thou, might
escape." The tears, the penitence of Eve prevailed; a Heavenly messenger
was despatched to console her, to lift her thoughts to better hopes and
less gloomy anticipations.--Since the sin of our first parents, and
their banishment from Paradise, these angel visits had been "few and far
between," and our first mother hailed his approach with awe and
pleasure. "Eve," kindly spake the divine visitant, "thy sorrow and thy
penitence are all known to thy Creator, and though thy fault was great,
he yet careth for thee. I am sent to comfort thee. As thou didst disobey
the commands of God, death has been brought, indeed, upon thy posterity,
but thy children may not curse thee. Thy daughters shall imitate thy
penitence, and so secure the favor of Heaven. To each one shall be given
a spirit, capable of resisting temptation, and assimilating to that
holiness from which thou hast departed. Though sin and death have
entered the world by thy means, thy children will still have only their
own sins to answer for, and may not justly reproach thee for their
errors." "True, Lord," responded Eve, "but the altered sky, the hard
earth that scarcely yields its treasures to the labor of Adam, and the
changed natures of the animals that once meekly and kindly sported
together, all tell of my disobedience, and my daughter will turn her
eyes upon me when suffering and trial come, and that look will reproach
me as the cause. I am told that our children shall equal in number the
leaves of the green wood, and the earth shall hereafter be peopled with
beings like ourselves. I shrink to think on the mass of sorrow I have
brought upon my daughters."
She looked fondly on her babe, and timidly raised it towards the
beneficent being who paused at her bower. "When men shall become
numerous, and there shall be many beings like these, fair and frail, may
not their beauty--" She paused and looked anxiously up. "Speak, Eve,"
said the messenger, "thy request shall be granted. I am sent to bestow
upon thee whatever thou shalt ask, for this thy first born daughter." "I
scarcely know," resumed Eve, thus encouraged, "but I would ask for this
first daughter of an erring mother, _something_, to warn her of even the
approach of sin, something, that will whisper caution, and speak of
innocence and purity. Something, Lord, that will remind us of Paradise."
"Hast thou not all that, Eve, in the voice within, the voice of
conscience?" Eve dropped her head upon her bosom. "But that monitor may
be disregarded, my daughters may, like their unhappy parent, stifle its
voice and heedlessly neglect its warnings. I would have something, that
when flattery would mislead, beauty bewilder, or passion lead astray,
would outwardly as it were bid them take heed, warn them to shrink from
the very trail of the serpent whose insidious poison may corrupt and
destroy. Hast thou nothing that will be to the innocent, the virtuous,
like a second conscience, to cause them to shrink even from the
_appearance_ of evil?" The angel smiled, and answered our mother with
kindness, and a look of heavenly satisfaction. "Most wisely hast thou
petitioned, O Eve. Thou hast asked blessings for thy posterity, not for
thyself. Thy daughters shall bless thee for the gift thy prayer has
obtained." The spirit departed. The gift he bestowed may be seen on the
face of the maiden when she shrinks from the too admiring gaze, when her
ear is listening to the tale of love, or flattery, when in the solitude
of her own thoughts she starts at her own imaginings, when she shrinks
even from her own reflected loveliness in the secrecy of home; or
abroad, trembles at the intrusive touch, or familiar language, of him
who _should be_ her guide, her protector from evil. That gift was the
_blush_.
THE WIDOWED BRIDE.
By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
The Morn awoke in Hindostan,
And blushing, left the couch of Night,
While soon her rosy smiles began,
To flood the dewy earth with light.
While yet the sultry day was young,
Came forth a happy bridal band,
With sunny smiles and English tongue,
Which spoke them of a distant land;
They gathered round an altar-stone,
Erected to the one Most High,
Standing in solitude alone,
Mid signs of dark idolatry.
Then two came slowly from the crowd;
_He_ with a bearing bold and proud,
A haughty smile and flashing eye,
Darkling with love's intensity;
While she, the high-born English bride,
Drew closer to that one dear side;
Her eyelids drooped, her cheek grew pale
As snow, beneath the bridal veil,
As if the weight of her own bliss
Were all too much of happiness,
To thrill her heart and light her eye
Beneath another's scrutiny.
On crimson cushions dropped with gold
The youthful pair together bow;
Before that priest in surplice-fold
They clasp their trembling fingers now;
A prayer is heard--the oath is said--
That gentle creature lifts her head--
A voice has thrilled into her heart,
Like music breathed to it apart,--
To lie there an abiding spell,
To haunt forever memory's cell--
To mingle with her latest breath
And light the very wing of death.
Her vow was uttered timidly--
With half a murmur, half a sigh;
Yet the low faltering sound confessed
The love that brooded in her breast.
The golden ring is on her hand--
She is pronounced a wedded bride;
Oh say, why does she lingering stand
So long that altar-stone beside?
And whence the misty tears that dim
The sunny azure of her eye?
Why leans her slender form on him?
Why does she sob so bitterly?
Well may she weep, that fair young bride;
For up the Ganges' golden tide,
Mid jungles deep, where beasts of prey
With pestilence hold deadly sway,
Where the wild waters fiercest sweep,
And serpents in their venom sleep,
Beneath each dewy leaf and flower,
That gentle bride must build her bower.
In the cool shadow of the shore,
With snowy streamers floating wide,
To the light dipping of the oar,
The budgerow swept o'er the tide;
The soft breeze ling'ring at her prow,
Where many a garland graceful hung,
In hues of purple, gold and snow,
And on the rippling waters flung
An odor sweet and delicate,
As that which all imprisoned lies,
Unknown to man as his own fate,
Within the flowers of Paradise.
Beneath an awning's silken shade,
Where the light breeze its music made,
With woven fringe and silken cord,
Sat the young bride with her brave lord.
Her hand in his was ling'ring still,
And every throb of his full heart
Met her young pulses with a thrill,
And sent the blood up with a start,
To that round cheek but late so pale
And blanched beneath the bridal veil.
A tear still trembled in her eye,
Like dews that in the violet lie;
But breaking through its lovely sheen,
The brightness of her soul was seen,
Like light within the amethyst,
Which told how truly she was blest;
Though as she met his ardent gaze,
Like the veined petal of a flower
Her eyelids drooped, as from the blaze
Of some loved, high, but dreaded power.
As bound by some subduing spell,
In beauty at his side she bowed.
The bridal robe around her fell,
Like fragments of a summer cloud;
The loosened veil had backward swept,
And deeply in her glossy hair,
Like light, the orange blossoms slept,
As if they sought new beauty there;
And pearls lay softly on her neck,
Like hailstones melting over snow,
Save when the blood, that dyed her cheek.
Diffused abroad its rosy glow,
And playing on her bosom-swell,
With every heart-pulse rose or fell.
Up went the sun; his burning rays
Broke o'er the stream like sparkling fire,
Till the broad Ganges seemed a-blaze,
With gorgeous light, save where the spire
Of some lone slender minaret,
Threw its clear shadow on the stream,
Or grove-like banian firmly set,
Broke with its boughs the fiery gleam;
Or where a white pagoda shone
Like snow-drift through the shadowy trees;
Or ancient mosque stood out alone,
Where the wild creeper sought the breeze;
Or where some dark and gloomy rock
Shot o'er the deep its ragged cliffs,
Inhabited by many a flock
Of vultures, and its yawning rifts
Alive with lizards, glowing, bright,
As if a prism's changing light
Within the gloomy depths were flung,
Where like rich jewels newly strung,
The sleeping serpent stretched its length,
And nursed its venom into strength.
Where the broad stream in shadow lay,
The bridal barque kept on her way,
While every breeze that swept them o'er,
Brought loads of incense from the shore;
Where each luxuriant jungle lay
A wilderness of tangled flowers,
And budding vines in wanton play
Fell from the trees in leafy showers,
Flinging their graceful garlands o'er
The rippling stream and reedy shore;
The lily bared its snowy breast,
Swayed its full anthers like a crest,
And softly from its pearly swell,
A shower of golden powder fell
Among the humbler flowers that lay
And blushed their fragrant lives away;
There oleanders lightly wreathed
Their blossoms in a coronal,
And the rich baubool softly breathed
A perfume from its golden bell;
There flower and shrub and spicy tree
Seemed struggling for sweet mastery;
And many a bird with gorgeous plume,
Fluttered along the flowery gloom,
Or on the spicy branches lay,
Uttering a sleepy roundelay;
While insects rushing out like gems,
Or showery sparks at random flung,
Through ripening fruit and slender stems
There to the breathing blossoms clung,
Studded the glowing boughs and threw
O'er the broad bank a brilliant hue.
On--on they went; a fanning breeze
Came sighing through the balmy trees,
And undulating o'er the stream
Rose tiny wavelets, like the gleam
Of molten gold, and crested all
With a bright trembling coronal,
Like that which Brahmins in their dream
Lavish upon the sacred stream.
Then all grew still. The sultry air
Lay stagnant in the jungles there--
The sun poured down his fervent heat;
The river lay a burnished sheet;
The floweret closed its withered bell;
From the parched leaf the insect fell;
The panting birds all tuneless clung
To the still boughs, where late they sung;
The dying blossoms felt the calm,
And the still air was thick with balm.
All things grew faint in that hot noon,
As Nature's self lay in a swoon.
And she, that gentle, loving fair,
How brooks her form the sultry air?
Most patiently--but see her now!
What fear convulses her pale brow?
And why that half-averted eye,
Watching his look so anxiously?
The scarlet burning in his cheek--
Those lips all parched and motionless?
Oh! do they fell disease bespeak?
Or only simple weariness?
One look! the dreadful certainty
Wrings from her heart a stifled cry;
And now half phrensied with despair,
She rends the blossoms from her hair,
And leaping to the vessel's side
She drenched them in the sluggish tide;
Then to the cushions where he lay,
Senseless and fevered with disease,
Panting his very life away,
She rushed, and sinking to her knees,
Raised softly up his throbbing head,
And pillowed it upon her breast--
Then on his burning forehead laid
The dripping flowers, and wildly pressed
Her pallid mouth upon his brow,
And drew him closer to her heart,
As if she thought each trembling throe
Could unto his, new life impart.
Wildly to his she laid her cheek,
And backward threw her loosened hair,
That not a glossy curl might break
From off his face the sluggish air.
The noon swept by, and there was she
Counting his pulses as they rose,
Striving with broken melody
To hush him to a short repose,
Bathing his brow and twining still
Her fingers in his burning hand,
Her heart's blood stopping with a chill
Whene'er he could not understand,
Nor answer to her gentle clasp;
But dashed that little hand away,
Or crushed it with delirious grasp,
Entreating tenderly her stay.
Father of heaven! and must he die?
She breathed in her heart's agony,
As up with every painful breath,
Came to his lips the foam of death,
And o'er his swollen forehead played,
Like serpents by the sun betrayed,
The corded veins whose purple swell,
With his hot pulses rose and fell.
Those drops upon his temple there,
The rolling eye, the gloomy hair,
The livid lip, the drooping chin,
And the death-rattle deep within,
That speechless one, so late thy pride--
There lies thy answer, widowed bride!
Half conscious of her misery,
Like something chiselled o'er a grave,
She placed her small hand anxiously
Upon the lifeless heart, and gave
One cry--but one--of such despair,
The jackall startled from his lair,
And answered back that fearful knell,
With a long, sharp and hungry yell.
A slow and solemn hour swept by,
And there, all still and motionless,
With rigid limb and stony eye,
The widow knelt in her distress.
With pitying looks the swarthy crew
Around the tearless mourner drew,
And trembling strove to force away
From her chill arms the senseless clay.
Slowly she raised her awful head;
A slight convulsion stirr'd her face;
Close to her heart she snatched the dead,
And held him in a strong embrace;
Then drawing o'er his brow her veil,
She turned her face as strangely wild,
As if a fiend had mocked her wail,
Parted her marble lips and smiled.
Twice she essayed to speak, and then
Her face drooped o'er the corpse again,
While forth from the disshevelled hair
A husky whisper stirred the air.
'Nay, bury him not here,' it said,
'I would have prayers above my dead;'
Then, one by one, the timid crew,
From the infected barge withdrew:
Helmsmen and servants, all were gone;
The wife was with her dead alone.
With no propelling arm to guide,
The barque turned slowly with the tide,
And on the heavy current swept
Its slow, funereal pathway back,
Where the expiring sunbeams slept,
Like gold along its morning track.
The day threw out its dying gleam,
Imbuing with its tints the stream,
As if the mighty river rolled
O'er beds of ruby--sands of gold.
As if some seraph just had hung
In the blue west his coronet,
The timid moon came out and flung
Her pearly smiles about--then set,
As if she feared the stars would dim
The silvery brightness of her rim;
Then in the blue and deepening skies
The stars sprang out, like glowing eyes,
And on the stream reflected lay,
Like ingots down the watery way;
And softly streamed the starry light
Down to the wet and gloomy trees,
Where fiery flies were flashing bright,
Afloat upon the evening breeze,
Or like some fairy, tiny lamp,
Glow'd out among the stirring leaves,
And down among the rushes damp,
Where Pestilence her vapor weaves,
Till shrub and reed, and slender stems,
Seemed drooping with a shower of gems.