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Side 74 - THERE is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground.
Side 6 - Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature ; The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted.
Side 55 - THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds ; And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave: Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
Side 40 - But soon, ah soon rebellion will commence, If music meanly borrows aid from sense: Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands, Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands; To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes, And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums. Arrest him, Empress; or you sleep no more'— She heard, and drove him to th
Side 51 - Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Side 62 - That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height, Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he ! The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
Side 61 - AN Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! — yes, Faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.
Side 7 - FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS. SOME cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites ; for my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, or for Handel.
Side 6 - MY soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth If in these eyes there lurk a tear, Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.