Favorite Songs and Hymns For School and Home, page: 0108

450 Of The World's Best Songs And Hymns, With Lyrics & Sheet music for voice & piano.

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108
 
Presently George came to the door of the sick room, and begged her to go down and sing to him. Of course, in the house of a dean's widow no music ex­cept sacred must be heard on a Sunday; but to have Helen sing it, George would condescend even to a hymn tune; and there was Handel, for whom he pro­fessed a great admiration! . . . Although she had often sung from Handel for his pleasure, content to reproduce the bare sounds which both they and the words repre­sented, she positively refused this evening to gratify him. She would sing from "The Creation" if he liked, but
nothing out of " The Messiah" would she or could she sing. Perhaps she could herself hardly have told why, but George perceived the lingering influence of the morning's sermon, and, more vexed than he had ever yet been with her, for he could not endure her to cherish the least prejudice in favor of what he despised, he said he would overtake his aunt, and left the house. The moment he was gone, she went to the piano, and began to sing " Comfort ye." When she came to " Come un­to me," she broke down. But with sudden resolution she rose, and having opened every door between it
A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME.
W. C. Brown.
and her brother, raised the top of the piano, and then «ang "Come unto me" as she had never sung in her life, nor did she stop there. At the distance of six of the wide standing houses, her aunt and cousin heard her singing " Thou didst not leave," with the tone and expression of a prophetess—of a Msenad, George said. She was still singing when he opened the door, but when they reached the drawing-room she was gone. She was kneeling beside her brother.—Macdonald. The profane never hear music; the holy ever hear it It is God's voice, the divine breath audible. When
it is heard then is a Sabbath. It is omnipotent. All things obey music as they obey virtue. . . . Woe to him who wants a companion, for he is unfit to be a companion even of himself. We inspire friendship in our fellow-men when we have, contracted friendship with the gods. . . . The wood-thrush launches forth his evening strain from the midst of the pines. I admire the moderation of this master. There is nothing tumultuous in his song. There is as great an interval between the thrasher and the wood-thrush as between Thomson's "Seasons" and Homer.—H. D. Tkoreau.
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