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Music Of The Mind Post by :klomani Category :Poems Author :Sarah S. Mower Date :November 2011 Read :1667

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Music Of The Mind

What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody? Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station, from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.

We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers, green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.

We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting rock forming a little cascade, and then flowing smoothly along, bearing upon its tranquil bosom the fair images of the flowers which spring up along its banks, upon the sloping hill-side and in every shady nook and dell, smiling in strange beauty among the stern features of the woodland scene. Sweet flowers, so fair and fragile, that they flourish only when sheltered from the rude blast and pelting storm by some friendly shade, and so modest and retiring in their habits, that they shun the open field, where they must encounter the scrutinizing gaze of the noonday sun, and choose this sweet seclusion for their home.

We stand upon the shores of the ocean, while the sun emerges from its bed, lifting his broad shining disk above the blue waters, and tinging the sparkling waves with every hue that decks the rainbow's form. We gaze with rapture upon the scene, till, dazzled by its brilliancy, we turn our eyes upon the white sails, gliding over the bosom of the deep, like some noble bird winging its way through the air, or watch the swelling waves, as they roll in grand procession towards us, and break in thunder on the shore. We sit in a calm summer evening and watch the shadows as they lengthen o'er the ground, till they lose themselves in the deep rich green of the vales from winch the sun has disappeared, to gild the tops of the forest trees and far off hills with more than noonday splendor. The balmy zephyrs hold their breath, nor dare to whisper in the softest tone, while the little forest birds, in sweetly pensive strains, are chanting forth their evening hymn of praise and homage to the sun, who, now all bright with parting smiles, sinks down behind the western hills, tinging the clouds at first with light faint orange streaks, which soon turn to crimson, and touched again by sunset's magic wand, they glow in purple of the richest dyes, then slowly fade to grey, while twilight draws around us her dewy curtains and shuts the scene from our admiring gaze.

We walk abroad in the calm stillness of a moonlight evening, when night, cheered by the presence of her fair queen, withholds her dusky pall and contents herself by drawing a thin silvery veil over the fair-face of nature, which only serves to cast a shade of pensive beauty upon her lovely features. The rocks, the fields, the lakes and streams, the distant hills and mountains, whose lofty peaks are crowned with the white fleecy clouds which skirt the horizon, appear far more lovely when viewed by the pure dreamy light now stealing around us, than when displayed to our sight by the clear light of day. The trees and shrubs lie pictured on the dewy earth, their fair images reposing in motionless beauty, save when the cool breath of evening plays among the verdant branches, disturbing their shadowy outlines. No sound breaks upon the stillness of the scene, except the gentle murmur of the winding stream or the roar of some far off waterfall, softened and subdued by distance, till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.

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.


(The end)
Sarah S. Mower's poem: Music Of The Mind

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