There is no death! An angel form
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread,
He bears our best beloved away,

And then we call them "dead."

He leaves our hearts all desolate,

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers-
Transplanted into bliss, they now
Adorn immortal bowers.

The birdlike voice, whose joyous tones
Make glad this scene of sin and strife,
Sings now in everlasting song

Amid the tree of life.

And where he sees a smile too bright,
Or hearts too pure for taint and vice,
He bears them to that world of light,
To dwell in paradise.

Born into that undying life,

They leave us but to come again; With joy we welcome them-the same Except in sin and pain.

And ever near us, though unseen,

The dear immortal spirits tread, For all the boundless universe

Is life-there are no dead!

Lord Lytton.

THOU canst not frown, O Death! Thy sullen brow
Is marble-cast; thine ear is deaf and dead
To sound; thine eyes are blind, and thou art led
By wandering chance, nor knowest where or how;
Nor smile nor frown can move thy visage, now,
To fill the cup of joy, or pain. 'Tis said
Thou hast no touch of sorrow for the bed
Of anguish; thou dost scorn both weal and woe,
And, merciless and pitiless, dost change

The purposes of men, with frosted breath;
Dost snap sweet ties and gentle bonds of love,
And in thy prison-house-the grave-with strange,
Relentless hand, dost bind the soul, O Death!
And cheat the spirit of its home above.

Yet, Death! thou art not victor. Through the gloom
Of thy veiled face, like some dim-visioned height
In shadow, dawns the spirit's quenchless light-
The vast reality of love-to loom

Beyond the shuddering silence of the tomb!
O, Christly faith! but lift, in gentle might,
The standard of thy Master, and the night
Doth melt in day, sublimer thought doth bloom
And flower, and holier laws compel the heart,
Till, uncompelled, all souls, made true as free,
Shall hear, enwrapped, the voiceless, heavenly choirs,
In unimagined glorias, impart

The perfect song of immortality,

The full fruition of divine desires!

S. H. Thayer.

CALL me not dead when I, indeed, have gone
Into the company of the ever-living,

Rather be made.

High and most glorious poets! Let thanksgiving Say, "He at last hath won Rest and release, converse supreme and wise, Music and song and light of immortal faces. To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places, He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes. To-morrow (who can say?) Shakespeare may pass,— And our lost friend just catch one syllable Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well. Or Milton,-or Dante, looking on the grass, Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill.

Scribner's.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one that draws the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Bryant.

XXI.

ECHOES.

THERE are many echoes in the world, and but few voices.

Goethe:

TONES are the cadences which emotion gives to thought. Herbert Spencer.

MUSIC is the inarticulate speech of the heart, which cannot be compressed into words, because it is infinite.

Wagner.

WORDS are not essential to the existence of thoughtonly to its expression.

Dugald Stewart.

THINKING is the talking of the soul with itself.

Plato.

WERE it not for music we might, in these days, say, the

beautiful is dead.

D'Israeli.

Har

MUSIC has a grammar and a syntax, but no speech. mony is the angelic and divine tongue. No words are necessary to ecstacy. When the soul speaks its syllables are sighs, and its eloquence the melody of the birds.

John W. Forney.

THE music of art is but the imitation of the music of nature; there are voices of grief in the winds, joy in the songs of spring and melody in the rippling stream. These Æolian strains God employs to educate the finer feelings; and man, conspiring to the same result, adds these artificial charms, which elevate the sentiment, quicken the imagination, touch the heart, transport the soul and draw the finite closer to the infinite.

W. H. Robertson.

MUSIC, as it rises from the family altar or echoes from the sanctuary, addresses the highest and holiest emotions of the soul.

Rev. J. M. Smith.

WHEN music grieves, the past

Returns in tears.

Alexander Smith.

MUSIC, in its highest form, seems a pensive memory.

David Swing.

THE foot always steps more lightly and willingly when there is a band of music in front.

David Swing.

MUSIC should strike fire from the heart of man, and bring tears from the eyes of woman.

Beethoven.

SONG shall be heard as long as fields are green, and skies are blue, and woman's face is fair.

Alexander Smit

POETRY is the marriage of music to passionate sentiment.

MUSICAL! how much lies in that. A musical thought is one spoken by a mind that has penetrated into the innermost heart of the thing, detected the inmost mystery of it, namely, the melody that lies hidden in it, the inward harmony of coherence which is its soul, whereby it exists, and has a right to be in this world. All inmost things, we may say, are melodious, naturally utter themselves in song. The meaning of song goes deep. Who is there that in logical words can express the effect music has on us. A kind of inarticulate, unfathomable speech which leads us to the edge of the infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that.

Carlyle.

WHEN troubles come, go at them with songs. When griefs arise, sing them down. Lift the voice of praise against cares. They sing in heaven, and among God's people on earth; song is the appropriate language of Christian feeling.

THE devil cannot stand music.

Beecher.

Luther.

THE man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved by concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.

*

Let no such man be trusted.

Shakespeare.

THIS is the luxury of music. It touches every key of memory, and stirs all the hidden springs of sorrow and of joy. I love it for what it makes me forget, and for what it makes me remember.

Belle Brittain.