our churches at all, if we think how little the end which is sought is attained. In all ages music has been used to influence the mind; and its power is not less in stirring the soldier's courage, than in raising our hearts to lofty and holy thoughts. But to affect us in any degree, it must be appropriate. Could the voluptuous fascinating waltz, however perfect in its kind, ever nerve the arm for war? or the grandest march ever composed lead the soul to holy contemplations? Music does not drive, it persuades the mind. Not long ago, in my walk into the country on a Sunday morning, I reached a church just as the congregation were going in. I entered and took my seat. Soon the venerable pastor came in. Immediately on his reaching the pulpit, the musicians in the gallery, struck up a I cannot call it an anthem. It was a quick movement, and apparently sung by several men and women, but the words were drowned in the noise made by violin, clarionet and horn. Yet it was music. Aye, such as would have been praised at theatre or ball. But were the thoughts of any one of those present prepared by it, for the solemn services they were entering upon? The music during the exercises was much of the same character; the words were lost sight of, and with them all feeling, by the musicians, in their desire to, each, make "music." After service I asked the sexton, if such was their usual music. He told me that "it was but seldom they had such as that, but one of the hired performers belonged to the orchestra of one of the theatres, and sometimes he brought out his friends,"—and alas! his music too. He could have had no idea that music for the theatre was not music for the church. The organ, or the several instruments which take its place, is by no means a necessary aid. So the heart be in it, no music so powerfully affects the soul as voices alone. Yet often the instrumental overpowers the vocal part. The music during our service is only useful as it heightens some idea expressed in the poetry; and shall the noise of instruments or the want of feeling in the singers be allowed to take away all devotion from the hymn, which when read makes the heart leap and tremble with emotions of love or gratitude to its Maker? The only way to remedy this evil is, to make each individual feel, that our church music is not what it ought to be. The majority rules in church affairs, as well as in politics. While we have the works of Haydn, Mozart and Handel, to mention no others, to choose from, we cannot fail to have solemn music, if the wish be but felt. There is no one who, if asked, but would say he felt this wish. Yet why in so few of our churches is any attention paid to the subject? And why, even in those few so little attained? Repetition will act upon the minds of men, and reader, I entreat you, let your church music be what it ought. Every one has an interest in the subject, and you therefore should feel interested. It is in your power to aid in this cause, for it is the general will from which the change must come, and that will is formed by private influence. J. NICOLL'S POEMS.* A little volume was published in Edinburgh, in 1835, of which we have by us a copy-perhaps the only one in this country. It bore the title of Poems and Lyrics, By Robert Nicoll, and had neither preface, nor other introduction to its contents than a simple dedication to a female author, Mrs. Johnstone. Sent into the world in this quiet way, it probably found few readers. But besides the modesty of its pretensions, two other circumstances would have prevented its wide circulation;—the author was Radical in his politics, and Unitarian in his religious views. The book however contains much that should recommend it to the lovers of Scotch verse, and of genuine poetry. An admirer, without being an imitator of Burns, the writer had a kindred spirit, which manifests itself in his various effusions-whether serious or humorous, bold or tender. Burning with that love of justice which so much in the social state of Great Britain is suited to kindle into indignation, like the "Corn-Law Rhymer," he sometimes used his verse to relieve his own soul, or to inspire others with the sentiments which a freeman should neither be ashamed to avow nor afraid to express; a true hearted Scotchman, he loved to celebrate the charms of his native hills and the delights of domestic sympathy; while at times the playful or the sarcastic shows the variety of his powers. If he had lived, he might have done what would have drawn attention to these early Poems and Lyrics, By Robert Nicoll. William Tait, Edinburgh, 1835, pp. 220, 12mo. productions of his muse, and have extorted even from prejudice an acknowledgement of their merits; but he died two years since at Edinburgh, to which he had returned, after losing his health in conducting a political journal distinguished, we believe, by the violence of its character, in Leeds. At the time of his death he had not reached the age of thirty. We are sure that some of the pieces from this volume will gratify our readers, to whom they will be new. A HAPPY bit hame this auld warld wad be, If men, whan they 're here, could make shift to agree, I ken na why ane wi' anither sud fight, Whan to 'gree wad make a' body cosie an' right. My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine, The knave ye wad scorn, the unfaithfu' deride ; Ye wad scorn to do fausely by woman or man; Your mither has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e; We luve the same simmer day, sunny an' fair; Frail shakin' Auld Age will sune come o'er us baith, I AM BLIND. THE Woodland! O! how beautiful, I hear its wild rejoicing birds Their songs of gladness sing; To see them leap from bough to bough Must be a pleasant thing: I must but image it in mind I cannot see it-I am blind! I feel the fragrance of the flowers,— The leaves are green upon its stalk— O! it must full of beauty be- My heart with joy would swell! I can but image it in mind I ne'er shall see it-I am blind! The trees are glorious green, you say— And Nature on their budding leaves Its nursing dew hath shed. They must be fair; but what is green? What is a spreading tree? What is a shady woodland walk? Say, canst thou answer me? No! I may image them in mind- The songsters that so sweetly chaunt Until my heart with joy doth leap, As it a wild bird were How seem they to the light-bless'd eye? I must but image them in mind I cannot see them-I am blind! A something warm comes o'er my hand; What is it? pray thee tell: Sunlight come down among the trees Into this narrow dell? Thou seest the sunlight and the sun, 'Tis well they are not known to me, My hand is resting on your cheek- My sister, art thou very fair?- The changes of the earth and sky, O! I can feel the blessed sun, Mirth, music, tears that fall, And darkness sad, and joy, and woe,Yea, Nature's movements all: But I must image them in mind I cannot see them-I AM BLIND! |
