I ask no hewn temple, sufficient is here; I ask not art's anthems, the woodland is near; The breeze is all risen, each leaf at his call Has a tear drop of gratitude ready to fall!
There 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air, There 's music in the swallow's wing, that skims so lightly there, There 's music in each waving tress of grove, and bower, and tree, To eye and ear 'tis music all where Nature revels free.
There 's discord in the gilded halls where lordly rivals meet, There 's discord where the harpers ring to beauty's glancing feet, There 's discord 'neath the jewell'd robe, the wreath, the plume, the crest, Wherever Fashion waves her wand, there discord rules the breast.
There 's music 'neath the cottage eaves, when, at the close of day, Kind-hearted mirth and social ease the toiling hour repay; Though coarse the fare, though rude the jest, that cheer that lowly board, There loving hearts and honest lips sweet harmony afford!
Oh! who the music of the groves, the music of the heart, Would barter for the city's din, the frigid tones of art? The virtues flourish fresh and fair, where rural waters glide. They shrink and wither, droop and die, where rolls that turbid tide.
Ah! faded is that lovely bloom, And closed in death that speaking eye, And buried in a green grass tomb, What once breathed life and harmony! Surely the sky is all too dark, And chilly blows the summer air,-- And, where 's thy song now, sprightly lark, That used to wake my slumb'ring fair?
Ah! never shalt thou wake her more! And thou, bright sun, shalt ne'er again, On inland mead, or sea-girt shore, Salute the darling of the plain. Maiden! they bade me o'er thy fate Numbers and strains mellifluous swell, They knew the love I bore thee great,-- They knew not what I ne'er can tell.
The unstrung heart to others leaves The music of a feebler woe, Her numbers are the sighs she heaves, Her off'ring tears that ever flow. Where could I gather fancies now? They 're with'ring on thy lowly tomb,-- My summer was thy cheek and brow, And perish'd is that lovely bloom!
Illustrious as a metaphysician, Dr Thomas Brown is entitled to a place in the poetical literature of his country. He was the youngest son of Samuel Brown, minister of Kirkmabreck, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, and was born in the manse of that parish, on the 9th January 1778. His father dying when he was only a year old, his childhood was superintended solely by his mother, who established her abode in Edinburgh. Evincing an uncommon aptitude for knowledge, he could read and understand the Scriptures ere he had completed his fifth year. At the age of seven he was committed to the charge of a maternal uncle in London, who placed him at the schools of Camberwell and Chiswick, and afterwards at two other classical seminaries, in all of which he exhibited remarkable precocity in learning. On the death of his relative he returned to Edinburgh, and in his fourteenth year entered the University of that city. During a visit to Liverpool, in the summer of 1793, he was introduced to Dr Currie, who, presenting him with a copy of Dugald Stewart's "Elements of Philosophy," was the means of directing his attention to metaphysical inquiries. The following session he became a student in Professor Stewart's class; and differing from a theory advanced in one of the lectures, he modestly read his sentiments on the subject to his venerable preceptor. The philosopher and pupil were henceforth intimate friends.