We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the northern skies.  We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses them to life and consciousness.  In view of objects and scenes like these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its cage.

This is what we call music of the mind.  Yet when no love to the Creator mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order.  But when an individual is brought to realize and “believe with all his heart” that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper.  For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of God, wakes in harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven can boast.  It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.

   No music, borne from Eden’s bowers,
      On heaven’s own balmy wings,
   No song, that angels ever sang. 
      Could roach these lofty strings;

   For Gabriel with his golden harp,
      Tuned by the heavenly dove,
   Could never touch the thrilling notes
      Of God’s redeeming love.

APPENDIX.

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The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day.  As it gave rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.

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PRAISES OF RURAL LIFE.

   Though city ladies treat with scorn
     The humble farmer’s wife,
   And call his daughters rude and coarse,
     I’ll live a country life.

   I’d rather spin, and weave, and knit,
     And wholesome meals prepare,
   Than, dressed in silk, with servants throng’d,
     Lounge in my cushioned chair.