MUSIC MUSIC
Blasen ist nicht floten, ihr musst die Finger bewegen.
To blow is not to play on the flute; you must move the fingers.
Jack Whaley had a cow,
And he had nought to feed her;
He took his pbe and played a tune,
And bid the cow consider.
Old Scotch and North of Ireland ballad.
Lady Granville uses it in a letter. (1836)
| topic = Music
| page = 537
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{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted
vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Gray—Elegy in a Country Church Yard. St. 10.
He stood beside a cottage lone,
And listened to a lute,
One summer's eve, when the breeze was gone,
And the nightingale was mute.
Thos. Hervey—The Demi's Progress.
Why should the devil have all the good tunes?
Rowland Hill—Sermons. In his biography
byE. W.Broome. P. 93.
Music was a thing of the soul—a rose-lipped
shell that murmured of the eternal sea—a
strange bird singing the songs of another shore.
J. G. Holland—Plain Talks on Familiar
Subjects. Art and Life.
| seealso = (See also Rogers; also Hamilton under Ocean)
| topic = Music
| page = 537
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{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn.
Holmes—Chambered Nautilus.
| seealso = (See also Wordsworth under Choice)
Citharoedus
Ridetur chorda qui semper oberrat eadem.
The musician who always plays on the same
string, is laughed at.
Horace—Ars Poetica. 355.
Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells.
Play uppe - "The Brides of Enderby."
Jean Ingelow—High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire.
When the morning stars sang together, and all
the sons of God shouted for joy.
Job. XXXVIH. 7.
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Browne)
n Ere music's golden tongue
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor.
Keats—The Eve of St. Agnes. St. 3.
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
Keats—The Eve of St. Agnes. St. 4.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
Keats—Ode on a Grecian Urn.
I even think that, sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune.
Lamb—A Chapter on Ears.
A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly,
Upon the bosom of that harmony,
And sailed and sailed incessantly,
As if a petal from a wild-rose blown
Had fluttered down upon that pool of tone,
And boatwise dropped o' the convex side
And floated down the glassy tide
And clarified and glorified
The solemn spaces where the shadows bide.
From the warm concave of that fluted note
Somewhat, half song, half odour forth did float
As if a rose might somehow be a throat.
Sidney Lanier—The Symphony.
| seealso = (See also Sherman)
| topic = Music
| page = 537
}}
{{Hoyt quote
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| text = <poem>Music is in all growing things;
And underneath the silky wings
Of smallest insects there is stirred
A pulse of air that must be heard;
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.
Lathrop—Music of Growth.
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language
spoken by angels.
| author = Longfellow
| work = The Children of the Lord's Supper. L. 262.
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| topic = Music
| page = 537
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{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = Yea, music is the Prophet's art
Among the gifts that God hath sent,
One of the most magnificent!
| author = Longfellow
| work = Christus. Pt. III. Second Interlude. St. 5.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Evangeline. Pt. I. 1.
He is dead, the sweet musician!
- * * *
He has moved a little nearer
To the Master of all music.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Hiawatha. Pt. XV. L. 56.
Music is the universal language of mankind.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Outre-Mer. Ancient Spanish
Ballads.
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
| author = Longfellow
| work = The Day is Done. St. 8.
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
| author = Milton
| work = Arcades. L. 68.
Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals
that whisper softness in chambers?
| author = Milton
| work = Areopagitica.
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
| author = Milton
| work = Comus. L. 244.
