Music hath pow'r over all the world: By the old and young 'tis prized. 'Tis loved by the great, 'tis loved by the small, And by the middle-sized.
Music hath pow'r o'er the warrior stern, In days of repose or of strife. In battle, the bagpipe is passing sweet: In peace, the drum and fife.
Music hath pow'r over ladye fair, When stars thro' heav'n are straying; And under her window her own true-love On the hurdy-gurdy's playing.
Music hath power in the morn of life: A pow'r not unfelt by any one. No trumpet e'er sounds, in after-days, So sweetly as youth's penny one.
Music hath pow'r in age to recall Sweet thoughts of youth and home. Oh! how my heart-strings crack to hear A boy blow thro' a comb!
Music hath pow'r over shepherd and swain, As, at eve, when the wood-dove moans, He softly soothes his soul to repose With the jew's-harp's tender tones.
Music hath pow'r in the solemn aisles, A deep and a holy charm: When the clerk, with a pitch-pipe symphony, Strikes up the hundredth psalm.
Music hath pow'r in the Thespian halls: I've been where thousands sate, And heard a thousand pæans rise To welcome "All round my hat."
Music hath pow'r in the city's din. How passing sweet to list, Amid the busy hum of men, To the barrel-organist.
Music hath pow'r in the forum's walls, 'Mid the gay and giddy throng. Oh! is there a heart that has not beat high At the magic sound of the gong?
Music hath pow'r on the bright, blue lake. Oh! how on _thy_ lake, Geneva, I've listen'd at eve to the far-off sound Of the marrow-bone and cleaver!
Music hath pow'r on Hybla's hill, When summer bees are humming; And fair hands charm the insect band, On frying-pan sweetly strumming.
Music hath pow'r when lady lips Chant forth some simple ditty Of blighted hope or hapless love:— Providing the lady's pretty.
Music hath pow'r at morn's bright hour, When the lark to heav'n's gate climbs. And, at midnight, how sweet to hear "King Cole" Play'd on the parish chimes!
Music hath pow'r 'neath the torrid zone, Where love in his ardour is found; And the heart of the Indian melts At the tom-tom's am'rous sound.
Music hath pow'r on Greenland's ice; When guileless hearts grow gladder, And nimble feet rejoice at the sound Of a dozen peas in a bladder.