Classic Poem

What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the
little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the
heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody?
Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station,
from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude
untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience
that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.

We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this
music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing
seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers,
green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with
her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and
delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright
pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse
the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in
clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her
silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.

We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon
nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval
beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her
cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have
for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious
to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our
thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up
cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the
trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of
molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets
which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring
melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling
eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which
quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting
rock forming a little cascade, and then flowing smoothly along, bearing
upon its tranquil bosom the fair images of the flowers which spring up
along its banks, upon the sloping hill-side and in every shady nook and
dell, smiling in strange beauty among the stern features of the woodland
scene. Sweet flowers, so fair and fragile, that they flourish only when
sheltered from the rude blast and pelting storm by some friendly shade,
and so modest and retiring in their habits, that they shun the open
field, where they must encounter the scrutinizing gaze of the noonday
sun, and choose this sweet seclusion for their home.

We stand upon the shores of the ocean, while the sun emerges from its
bed, lifting his broad shining disk above the blue waters, and tinging
the sparkling waves with every hue that decks the rainbow's form. We
gaze with rapture upon the scene, till, dazzled by its brilliancy, we
turn our eyes upon the white sails, gliding over the bosom of the deep,
like some noble bird winging its way through the air, or watch the
swelling waves, as they roll in grand procession towards us, and break
in thunder on the shore. We sit in a calm summer evening and watch the
shadows as they lengthen o'er the ground, till they lose themselves in
the deep rich green of the vales from winch the sun has disappeared, to
gild the tops of the forest trees and far off hills with more than
noonday splendor. The balmy zephyrs hold their breath, nor dare to
whisper in the softest tone, while the little forest birds, in sweetly
pensive strains, are chanting forth their evening hymn of praise and
homage to the sun, who, now all bright with parting smiles, sinks down
behind the western hills, tinging the clouds at first with light faint
orange streaks, which soon turn to crimson, and touched again by
sunset's magic wand, they glow in purple of the richest dyes, then
slowly fade to grey, while twilight draws around us her dewy curtains
and shuts the scene from our admiring gaze.

We walk abroad in the calm stillness of a moonlight evening, when night,
cheered by the presence of her fair queen, withholds her dusky pall and
contents herself by drawing a thin silvery veil over the fair-face of
nature, which only serves to cast a shade of pensive beauty upon her
lovely features. The rocks, the fields, the lakes and streams, the
distant hills and mountains, whose lofty peaks are crowned with the
white fleecy clouds which skirt the horizon, appear far more lovely when
viewed by the pure dreamy light now stealing around us, than when
displayed to our sight by the clear light of day. The trees and shrubs
lie pictured on the dewy earth, their fair images reposing in motionless
beauty, save when the cool breath of evening plays among the verdant
branches, disturbing their shadowy outlines. No sound breaks upon the
stillness of the scene, except the gentle murmur of the winding stream
or the roar of some far off waterfall, softened and subdued by distance,
till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the
whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon
till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes
reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.

We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic
freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the
northern skies. We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright
and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their
distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch
over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses
them to life and consciousness. In view of objects and scenes like
these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can
express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the
full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its
cage.

This is what we call music of the mind. Yet when no love to the Creator
mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order. But
when an individual is brought to realize and "believe with all his
heart" that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and
sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop
the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his
throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to
ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his
blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest
stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his
mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to
any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the
noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper.
For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of God, wakes in
harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven
can boast. It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men
made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.

No music, borne from Eden's bowers,
On heaven's own balmy wings,
No song, that angels ever sang.
Could roach these lofty strings;

For Gabriel with his golden harp,
Tuned by the heavenly dove,
Could never touch the thrilling notes
Of God's redeeming love.