Though the music of the spheres, regarded in its true light, is only an elegant fiction, Addison in his beautiful hymn, "The spacious firmament on high,' has given it more than an ideal existence, every verse of which suggests the idea of melody. Among modern poets, Henry Kirke White has the following beautiful passage on this subject : Who is it leads the planets on their dance- Hark! 'tis the voice of planets on their dance, The harmony of order! How they sing! The regulated orbs upon their path Through the wide trackless ether sing, as though And made fair music, such as mortal hand Ne'er raised on the responding chords; more like Hears in the strings of the suspended harp, Wake in the long, shrill pauses of the wind. To which may be added another, by Atherstone, in his "Midsummer Day's Dream ;" a beautiful spirit is addressing a son of earth. "Thou seest these shining orbs That wing their smooth way through the fields of ether; Giving out joyful music:-think'st thou then To thine ear, Oh! then there was a burst of glorious sounds, Of that o'erwhelming chorus; for, at once The presence of the actual Deity. At once the mighty spheres sent up their song Of space were filled with deep melodious thunder. The author of the " Opening of the Sixth Seal" has the following: Held planetary orbs their mystic dance That never had known change; worlds above worlds, Countless as pearly drops that gem the mead On vernal morn, lay pillowed on the sky; And in the centre of the wondrous whole The Deity Himself, benignant still, So they went on in harmony, and knew By listening seraphs, in their viewless flight On light's pure pinions, raptured heard; so they Rapidly rolling, and with hallowed song, Together hymned sweet music to their God. Exquisitely beautiful also are the allusions to this heavenly music in "The Lost Pleiad," by the ་ lovely authoress of "The Improvisatrice." The poetic fiction depends on that often quoted verse of Ovid: 66 Quæ septem dici, sex tament esse solent.” Which seven are called, though only sir appear. from which it is supposed that one of these stars Six were brides in sky and sea, This lovely Pleiad (Cyrene) becomes the bride of an earthly prince, and each day is passed in the sweetest intercourse This bright, this half immortal bride, who had left her glorious sphere, is deserted by Prince Cyris. They parted as all lovers part, She with her wronged, her breaking heart, 'Twas the red hue of twilight's hour That lighted up the forest bower, Where that sad Pleiad looked her last, The white wave of his plume is past; She raised her listening head in vain, To catch his echoing step again, Then bowed her face upon her hand, And once or twice a burning tear Wandered beyond their white command, And mingled with the waters clear: 'Tis said, that even from that day, Those waters caught their diamond ray. The evening shades closed o'er the sky, The night winds sang their melody: They seemed to rouse her from the dream That chained her by that lonely stream. She came when first the starry lyre Tinged the green wave with kindling fire; "Come, sister," sang they, "to thy place;" The Pleiad gazed, then hid her face: Slowly that lyre rose while they sung,Alas there is one chord unstrung. It rose until Cyrene's ear No longer could its music hear; She sought the fountain, and flung there To linger on the poet's lute, And tell in its most mournful strains, -A star hath left its native sky, The Naturalist's Diary, For June, 1830. It was the morning of a day in spring, And all the air was rich with melody; The heaven, the calm blue heaven was bright on high; Gleamed out, like thoughts of youth, life's troubled years between. The rose's breath upon the south wind came,— Oft, as its whisperings, the young branches stirred, As waits on soft sweet tones of music heard at night. The night dews lay in the half-open flower, Songs were amid the mountains far and wide Upon its painted wings, the butterfly Roamed a sweet blossom of the sunny sky; 'Twas a bright vision but too soon to die: Autumn, in storm and shade, shall quench the summer sheen. W. G. C. CLARKE. |