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To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell Till waked and kindled by the master's spell; And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A thousand melodies unheard before!
Mine be a cot beside the hill; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.
We love music for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings it can summon at a touch.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
Go! you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
To know her was to love her.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.
Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
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