The Comic Almanack, Volume 1: An Ephemeris in Jest and Earnest, Containing Merry Tales, Humerous Poetry, Quips, and OdditiesThackeray, William Makepeace
Philosophy
The Comic Almanack, Volume 1: An Ephemeris in Jest and Earnest, Containing Merry Tales, Humerous Poetry, Quips, and Oddities
Thackeray, William Makepeace
Almanacs, English -- England -- London; English wit and humor
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[Illustration:
NOVEMBER.—S^t. Cecilia's Day.
]
MUSIC'S POWER.
Music hath pow'r over all the world:
By the old and young 'tis prized.
'Tis loved by the great, 'tis loved by the small,
And by the middle-sized.
Music hath pow'r o'er the warrior stern,
In days of repose or of strife.
In battle, the bagpipe is passing sweet:
In peace, the drum and fife.
Music hath pow'r over ladye fair,
When stars thro' heav'n are straying;
And under her window her own true-love
On the hurdy-gurdy's playing.
Music hath power in the morn of life:
A pow'r not unfelt by any one.
No trumpet e'er sounds, in after-days,
So sweetly as youth's penny one.
Music hath pow'r in age to recall
Sweet thoughts of youth and home.
Oh! how my heart-strings crack to hear
A boy blow thro' a comb!
Music hath pow'r over shepherd and swain,
As, at eve, when the wood-dove moans,
He softly soothes his soul to repose
With the jew's-harp's tender tones.
Music hath pow'r in the solemn aisles,
A deep and a holy charm:
When the clerk, with a pitch-pipe symphony,
Strikes up the hundredth psalm.
Music hath pow'r in the Thespian halls:
I've been where thousands sate,
And heard a thousand pæans rise
To welcome "All round my hat."
Music hath pow'r in the city's din.
How passing sweet to list,
Amid the busy hum of men,
To the barrel-organist.
Music hath pow'r in the forum's walls,
'Mid the gay and giddy throng.
Oh! is there a heart that has not beat high
At the magic sound of the gong?
Music hath pow'r on the bright, blue lake.
Oh! how on _thy_ lake, Geneva,
I've listen'd at eve to the far-off sound
Of the marrow-bone and cleaver!
Music hath pow'r on Hybla's hill,
When summer bees are humming;
And fair hands charm the insect band,
On frying-pan sweetly strumming.
Music hath pow'r when lady lips
Chant forth some simple ditty
Of blighted hope or hapless love:—
Providing the lady's pretty.
Music hath pow'r at morn's bright hour,
When the lark to heav'n's gate climbs.
And, at midnight, how sweet to hear "King Cole"
Play'd on the parish chimes!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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