_Weekly Inspector_, II-288, June 27, 1807, N. Y.
It has been remarked, that the poetick department of the Anthology abounds rather in selected than original productions; whether this be the result of choice or necessity, the following lines will not be considered inapplicable since they partake the nature of both characters, and hence, if in other respects worthy to appear, it is presumed they will not be rejected.
'The power of Musick is thus hyperbolically commemorated in one of the songs of the Runic Bards.'[45]
I know a Song, by which I soften and enchant the arms of my enemies, and render their weapons of no effect.
I know a Song, which I need only to sing when men have loaded me with bonds, for the moment I sing it, my chains fall in pieces, and I walk forth at liberty.
I know a Song, useful to all mankind, for as soon as hatred inflames the sons of men, the moment I sing it they are appeased.
I know a Song of such virtue, that were I caught in a storm, I can hush the winds and render the air perfectly calm.
_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.
[Footnote 45: See Godwin's _Life of Chaucer_.]
I know a Song, the magick of whose power Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour; From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm, And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.
I know a Song, which, when in bonds I lay, Broke from the grinding chain its links away. While the sweet notes their swelling numbers rolled, Back flew the bolts, the trembling gates unfold; Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance, Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance.
I know a Song, to mend the heart design'd, Quenching the fiery passions of mankind; When lurking hate and deadly rage combine, To charm the serpent of revenge is mine; By heavenly verse the furious deed restrain, And bid the lost affections live again.
I know a Song, which when the wild winds blow To bend the monarchs of the forests low, If to the lay my warbling voice incline, Waking its various tones with skill divine, Hush'd are the gales, the spirit of the storm Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrow'd form, The day look up, the dripping hills serene Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.
_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.