MUSIC AND POETRY. Music is now so generally cultivated, especially by those for whom this Magazine is intended, that many of its readers must have spent a considerable portion of their precious lives in the acquirement of the tuneful art. It is an acquirement either of the most frivolous or of the most refining character, according to the spirit in which it is carried on. If, as sometimes in hearing drawing room performances, one might be tempted to believe, the great object is a trial of skill in making the fingers fly with the utmost rapidity over the ivory notes, it might be hard to say in what it would exceed other feats of leger-de-main. Even a spinning-jenny produces cotton, but this machine produces only noise. Far different is the aim of the true musician, the poet as he feels himself to be; for though his poem be somewhat inarticulate, though he would himself be at times perplexed to reduce it into words, yet that it has a soul and a meaning he cannot doubt. To trace these dim meanings, to compare the tale whispered to each by the touching melody,-for to each perchance it may be different, is a delightful amusement, giving fresh zest to the innocent pleasures of the family concert. These are pleasures which religion does not bid us resign, but over which she sheds her own hallowing influence, while the worldling introduced into the happy circle of domestic piety, has been compelled to acknowledge that even for the purest pleasures of this life, godliness has the promise of the life that now is, as well as of that which is to come. The following lines are a spe cimen of the musical relaxations to which we allude; we have a promise of others from the same pen : AN AIR OF NOVELLO'S. COMES it to thee with a sound of joy, Like the reckless bound of the mountain-boy, Oh list again-it has sorrowful deeps, "Tis a sorrowful heart, and a heart that weeps, It speaketh of life, of beautiful life, A tissue strange and fair, Yet enwoven with threads of tenderest grief, It leads the soul to the twilight sky Speaks it of hope? yes, hope in tears, Hope of a far-off shore, Music that thrills from the nightly sphere, Yet sounding, sounds no more. E. H. B. TALES FOR THE SICK-ROOM. No. II. BERTHOLD. A SUMMER Sun was beating fiercely on the sides of the hill, where the young Berthold, in all the joyous energy of childhood, was following his mountain sports. Intent only on his games, at first he heeded it not, but soon, wearied and exhausted, he sought a cool shade and refreshing draught. 'Oh, the thirst of these burning days,' he cried, 'I will hide me in my favorite grotto; how bright and clear is its little crystal well, and how softly these burning rays will fall through the sheltering trees on its cool green grass.' He turned aside towards a more sheltered dell, and reached his wonted haunts; but here a bitter disappointment awaited him, for as he hastened to cool his brow in the mountain pool, nothing but a rocky bottom met his eye. Faithless pool,' he cried, 'a few days ago how limpid was thy water, and now, when the weary traveller needs thee most, thou dost but mock his hopes. I will seek the mountain-stream, that bounding from rock to rock and glancing in the light, seems almost a living thing. Surely the envious sunbeams will not have had power to stop its foaming course.' Berthold climbed farther up the hill, but the mountain stream was dry. Disappointed, half angry, the weary boy toiled on ;-'I shall find no water,' he cried, 'till I reach yonder lake.' The crystal pool was empty, and the mountain stream was dry, but the fountains of the lake were deep, and the summer sun had no power to exhaust its ample flood. Then Berthold rejoiced in the clear blue lake, and plunged joyfully beneath its waves. 'How is it,' he said to himself, 'that I have ever loved most the little well which I found near the grotto and called my own, or the mountain stream, which has been my playfellow. The broad lake had not half such charms; but now that the pool and the stream prove faithless, I delight to look across its wide waters, and think how unfailing its supply, how many ages it has lain cradled unchanged among the hills. The bark of his dog now stopped his reflections, the happy boy stayed not to moralize, and the pool, the stream, and the lake remained only as some amongst many of the bright recollections of a childhood spent in scenes of no common beauty. In after years Berthold had often need to draw on these memories of the past. The ruddy boy had grown a tall and sickly youth, and his loved mountain haunts were exchanged for the monotonous precincts of a town. His was one of those lingering complaints, which, without extinguishing life, rob it of all its buoyancy. Pain and feebleness were his earthly portion; yet not uncheered by mercy. The soft voice of affection was near-a mother's tender love, a brother's sympathy, a sister's watchful eye. These were the solace of his weary hours, and on these his spirit rested. It was the first time sickness had entered the family, and for a while Berthold was the subject of every thought; each varying symptom was observed, each family plan formed with reference to the beloved sufferer. Their love did not grow cold, nor their interest less sincere, but weeks and months passed on and Berthold suffered still. Excitement will passaway where love does not, and it is hard to restrain long the overflowing life and joy of youth. Many things that at first excited the interest and tender sympathy of all around, were now so familiar as to be scarcely noticed, and in their joyous hours a sense of loneliness would sometimes creep over the languid sufferer. It was with feelings like these, that he retired one night early from a merry group, sad and disspirited. He would not, could not, reproach them-nay, he reproached himself for the thoughts he was indulging, when he knew well how tender was their love, how much was borne with for his sake. It is the protracted length of my trial,' he said; 'could I expect or wish the weight to press month after month upon them, or that what has lasted so long should continue to engross all their thoughts. Yet the longer it lasts, the more weary my spirit grows, and the more I seem to need their sympathy. It is under the hottest sun we most need the refreshing draught.' The words recalled to his thoughts the home of his childhood, fresh as a thing of yesterday; his mountain ramble was brought before him, he seemed to see once more the empty fount, and the dried channel of the brook, yet with feelings of which the happy child could not be conscious. Empty when needed most!' he exclaimed ; · 'how true is this, more or less, of all earthly things. But the lake, with its deep springs and unfailing waters, where shall I find its counterpart. Even in Thee, my gracious Saviour,' he cried, lifting his tearful eyes to heaven; 'thy love is vast and deep, a sea without a shore, a fountain never dried up. No passing pain OCTOBER, 1846. 2 A |