Part 15

You have learned that you have a spirit which _may_ be, _must_ be trained for immortality and heaven. You have found too that there are difficulties in the way of this training. There is a constant under-current of selfishness ready to insinuate itself into all you do; there is contempt for your inferiors in birth or cultivation, ever offering to start up, and there is a spirit of resentment against those who have injured you ready to take fire on the least provocation. What is to be done with these? You do not forget that to Him, whose "still, small voice" can speak with authority to the spirits He has made, must be your first appeal; but neither do you forget that his help is vouchsafed to those only who help themselves. And how will you help yourself? Will you in the plenitude of your might, and the resoluteness of kindled energy, _will_ the extinction of those unruly passions? Try it; exert the volition; _will_ to stop the flowing tide of revenge in your breast, and to cause love and forgiveness to spring up in its place. Well, have you done it? But what means that glowing cheek--that flashing eye--that compressed brow? Is such the expression of _love_? Nay brother, you have mistaken the way. Not the straight path of direct volition will ever lead you to your object.

But come forth with me into the field. Here are "sweet, strange flowers," to glad thy heart with their innocent beauty, and delight thee with their fragrance; here is the broad and blessed "sky bending over" thee, and the quiet lake at thy feet.

"The air is spread with beauty; and the sky Is musical with sounds that rise and die, Till scarce the ear can catch them; then they swell, Then send from far a low, sweet, sad farewell."

And who art thou that bringest discord and rough, angry passions into a

## scene like this? Ah, thou bringest not discord, it has stolen from thy

heart; thou art at peace. For it is not a poetic fiction when we are told that a wayward spirit, is subdued by nature's loveliness and _lovingness_.

"Till he can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, Amidst this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit healed and harmonized, By the benignant touch of love and beauty."

We asked, perchance, that our hearts might be lifted above the earth, and taught to repose with a surer love, and a more child-like trustfulness on the Father of Spirits. And did we know that our prayer was answered when the light of our eyes was torn from us; when our souls were rent with bitter agony, and lay crushed and bowed beneath the stroke of _His_ hand? Yes, it was answered; we know it now, though we knew it not then. The weary bird never reposes so sweetly in its nest, as when it hath been battered by the tempest and chased by the vulture; never doth the little child rest so lovingly and rejoicingly on its mother's breast, as when it hath there found a shelter from the injuries and taunts of its rude play-fellows; and the christian never knows the full sweetness of the words, "My Father in Heaven," till he can also add, "there is none that I desire beside Thee."

FRAGMENTS OF AN ADDRESS ON MUSIC.

By Edward Payson.

Without resorting to the hyperbolical expressions of poetry, or to the 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."

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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 AEolian 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.