1. Hark to the sound of the distant drum, Rap tap a ta, rap tap a ta, Beating in time with the pleasant hum 2. Hark to the sound of the distant drum, Rap tap a ta, rap tap a ta, Beating in time with the pleasant hum la la la, Tra la la la la, Tra la la la, Tra la la la, Tra la la la la la la la. D. C. SOMETIMES the first principles of music are unknown. Berlioz, the French composer, tells of a lady, who, buying a piece of music, was asked whether the fact of its being "in four flats" would be any obstacle to her playing it. She replied that it made no difference how many flats were marked, as beyond two she scratched them out with a penknife. He also tells of a dancer, who, rehearsing with the orchestra, and finding that something went wrong, thought the fault must be with the musicians, "What key are you playing in?" she inquired. "E," replied the conductor. "I thought so," continued the dancer; "you must transpose the music, as I can dance it only in D." Some blunders are funny enough to be "delightful!" THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. "Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane." 1. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The 2. That moss-covered bucket I hailed as a treasure, For of-ten, at noon, when re-turn'd from the fleld, I 3. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And ev'ry lov'd spot which my in-fan-cy knew ; The found it the source of an ex-quis-ite pleasure, The pur- est and sweetest that nature can yield. How full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Tho' filled with the nectar that Ju-pi- ter sips. And wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The ar-dent I seiz'd it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then now far removed from the loved situation, The tear of re-gret will in-tru-sive-ly swell, As cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well, The soon, with the emblem of truth o-ver-flowing, And, dripping with coolness, it rose from the well, The fancy re-verts to my fa-ther's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hung in the well, The old oak-en buck-et, the i-ron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket that hung in the well. OVER THE WAVES WE FLOAT. S. GLOVER. 1. Over the waves we float, we float, Fairies two in our fai 2. Cast by the winds from shore to shore, A moment ye view us, and then no more; The ry boat; LET us turn from the niceties of artistic expression | through the organ, to the general quality of the instrument itself. Its merits are not to be spoken of without allusion to its defects. There is scarcely any instrument that, in some narrow line, is not its superior. In fineness and delicacy of tone, and the capacity of expressing the most tender and subtle feeling, there is no portion of it which is comparable with the violin; nor can any of its pipes breathe a melody so sweet as a perfect flute exhales. Its distinction, of course, lies in the complication of the voices that lie at the command of its keys, and the vast range of its tones, from the thunder of the pedal to the piercing soprano of its pipes. It is a whole band put at the service of a single will, while all the instruments, intoned by the common air, have a quality fundamentally kindred, so that they can be always kept in tune and time. And then its power of sustaining tones, and of swelling them as they are prolonged, distinguishes it as greatly from all other instruments, in the possibility of producing grand effects, as it is inferior to many others in its capacity for uttering refined and thrilling melody. For majesty it is the imperial instrument. The viol, the flute, the trumpet, the bugle, each is an instrument of music, but this is emphatically the organ. Let a man listen to one built up to the full resources of modern art, as it should pour out a chorus or anthem of Handel, a fugue of Bach, or the close of the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven, and how applicable, while his soul was heaving with the undulations thus inspired, would the language seem to the instrument, which was used of Beethoven :-"What a vast, majestic structure thou hast builded out of sound, with its high peak piercing heaven with its base deep under ground! Vague as air, yet firm and real to the spiritual eye, seamed with fire its cloudy bastions far away uplifted lie, like those solemn shapes of thunder we behold at close of day, piled upon the far horizon where the jagged lightnings play. Awful voices, as from Hades, thrill us, growling from its heart; sudden splendors blazed from out it, cleaving its black walls apart; white-winged birds dart forth and vanish, singing as they pass from sight, till at last it lifts, and 'neath it shows a field of amber light, where some single star is shining, throbbing like a new-born thing, and the earth all drenched in splendor, lets its happy voices sing." This majesty, thus native to the tone and movement of the organ, makes it pre-eminently the instrument for religious expression.... Many of the old or | gans intended for churches of the continent were grotes. quely ornamented with figures of angels bearing trumpets in their hands, sometimes with kettle-drums that were beaten by the moveable arms of angels, and now and then might be seen on one a gigantic angel hovering over the other forms, beating time with a baton. There are records, too, of organs on which the figure of King David, larger than life, was prominent, playing the harp. Doubtless the cause of this repulsive tawdriness was the undisciplined feeling that the organ is, by eminence, the ally of the church, and the appropriate voice of the most profound and the most soaring sentiments inspired by religion. Especially was there fitness in placing the rude effigy of David, the sweet singer, upon the casing of the instrument.-Starr King. Music, the child of prayer, companion of religion. |