See to their desks Apollo’s sons repair,
  Swift rides the rosin o’er the horse’s hair! 
  In unison their various tones to tune. 
  Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;
  In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,
  Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,
  Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,
  Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tingling harp;
  Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,
  Attunes to order the chaotic din.
Rejected Addresses:  The Theatre.  H. AND J. SMITH.

  ’Tis believed that this harp which I wake now for thee
  Was a siren of old who sung under the sea.
The Origin of the Harp.  T. MOORE.

  And wheresoever, in his rich creation,
  Sweet music breathes—­in wave, or bird, or soul—­
  ’Tis but the faint and far reverberation
  Of that great tune to which the planets roll!
Music.  F.S.  OSGOOD.

  He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced;
  As some vast river of unfailing source,
  Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
  And opened new fountains in the human heart.
Course of Time, Bk.  IV.  R. POLLOK.

  Music resembles poetry:  in each
  Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
  And which a master-hand alone can reach.
Essay on Criticism.  A. POPE.

NAME.

  Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame,
  The power of grace, the magic of a name?
Pleasures of Hope, Pt.  II.  T. CAMPBELL.

  Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
  His honor and the greatness of his name
  Shall be, and make new nations.
King Henry VIII., Act iv.  Sc. 2.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Halloo your name to the reverberate hills
  And make the babbling gossip of the air
  Cry out.
Twelfth Night, Act i.  Sc. 5.  SHAKESPEARE.

  My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills
  My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
  Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
  And keep his only son, myself, at home.
Douglas, Act ii.  Sc. 1.  J. HOME.

  And if his name be George.  I’ll call him Peter;
  For new-made honor doth forget men’s names.
King John, Act i.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

  What woful stuff this madrigal would be
  If some starved hackney sonneteer, or me,
  But let a lord once own the happy lines,
  How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Essay on Criticism, Pt.  II A. POPE.

  ’Tis from high life high characters are drawn;
  A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
Moral Essays, Epistle I.  A. POPE.

  Oh!  Amos Cottle![A] Phoebus!  What a name
  To fill the speaking trump of future fame!
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.  LORD BYRON.