SONG FROM "FANNY."

BY F. G. HALLECK.

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 sunshine and of showers.

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.

SONG.

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 starbeams, smiling, meet,

At midnight, on the sea;

And there is music once a week

In Scudder's balcony.

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.

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.

51

The moonlight music of the waves

In storms is heard no more,

When the livid lightning mocks the wreck

At midnight on the shore;

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.

ODE.

BY CHARLES SPRAGU E.

WHEN from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,
An Angel left her place in heaven,

And crossed the wanderer's sunless path.
'Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke,
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground,
And thus with seraph voice she spoke:

"The Curse a Blessing shall be found."

She led him through the trackless wild, Where noontide sunbeam never blazed;The thistle shrunk-the harvest smiled, And Nature gladdened as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things, At Art's command, to him are given;

The village grows, the city springs,

And point their spires of faith to heaven.

He rends the oak—and bids it ride,

To guard the shores its beauty graced;

He smites the rock-upheaved in pride,

See towers of strength and domes of taste.
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal,
Fire bears his banner on the wave,
He bids the mortal poison heal,

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill;

He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that fill his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky,
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the Throne on high.
In war renowned, in peace sublime,

He moves in greatness and in grace;
His power subduing space and time,

Links realm to realm, and race to race.