A Melologue Upon National Music.

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.     There breathes a language known and felt         Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;     Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,         That language of the soul is felt and known.             From those meridian plains,         Where oft, of old, on some high tower     The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains,     And called his distant love with such sweet power,         That, when she heard the lonely lay,     Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1]         To the bleak climes of polar night,         Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky,     The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly,     And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,         Gayly as if the blessed light         Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow;             Oh Music! thy celestial claim             Is still resistless, still the same;             And, faithful as the mighty sea         To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,             The spell-bound tides     Of human passion rise and fall for thee!