Music: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
Music religious heat inspires, It wakes the soul, and lifts it high, And wings it with sublime desires, And fits it to bespeak the Deity.— ADDISON — A Song for St. Cecilia's Day. St. 4.
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, Expels diseases, softens every pain, Subdues the rage of poison, and the plague.— JOHN ARMSTRONG — Art of Preserving Health. Bk. IV. L. 512.
That rich celestial music thrilled the air From hosts on hosts of shining ones, who thronged Eastward and westward, making bright the night.— EDWIN ARNOLD — Light of Asia. Bk. IV. L. 418.
Music tells no truths.— BAILEY — Festus. Sc. A Village Feast.
Gayly the troubadour Touched his guitar.— THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY — Welcome Me
God is its author, and not man; he laid The key-note of all harmonies; he planned All perfect combinations, and he made Us so that we could hear and understand.— J. G. BRAINARD — Music.
The rustle of the leaves in summer's hush When wandering breezes touch them, and the sigh That filters through the forest, or the gush That swells and sinks amid the branches high,- 'Tis all the music of the wind, and we Let fancy float on this æolian breath.— J. G. BRAINARD — Music.
And sure there is music even in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument; for there is music wherever there is harmony, order, or proportion; and thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres.— SIR THOMAS BROWNE — Religio Medici. Pt. II. Sec. IX.
For discords make the sweetest airs.— BUTLER — Hudibras. Pt. III. Canto I. L. 919.
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell.— BYRON — Childe Harold. Canto III. St. 21.
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.— BYRON — Beppo. St. 32.
There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.— BYRON — Don Juan. Canto XV. St. 5.
And hears thy stormy music in the drum!— CAMPBELL — Pleasures of Hope. Pt. I.
Music is well said to be the speech of angels.— S. CARLYLE — Essays. The Opera.
In hollow murmurs died away.— COLLINS — The Passions. L. 68.
In notes by distance made more sweet. и.— COLLINS — The Passions. L. 60.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell.— COLLINS — The Passions. L. 1.
Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read that things inanimate have moved, And, as with living souls, have been inform'd, By magic numbers and persuasive sound.— CONGREVE — The Mourning Bride. Act I. Sc. 1.
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. Winter— COWPER — The Task. Bk. VI. Walk at Noon. L. 3.
The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. C.— DRYDEN — A Song for St. Cecilia's Day.
For there is no feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music-that does not make a man sing or play the better.— GEORGE ELIOT — The Mill on the Floss. Bk. VI. Ch. VII.
Music sweeps by me as a messenger Carrying a message that is not for me.— GEORGE ELIOT — Spanish Gypsy. Bk. III.
'Tis God gives skill, But not without men's hands: He could not make Antonio Stradivari's violins Without Antonio.— GEORGE ELIOT — Stradivarius. L. 151.
The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem.— EMERSON — Dirge.
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.— GRAY — Elegy in a Country Church Yard. St. 10.
He stood beside a cottage lone, And listened to a lute, One summer's eve, when the breeze was gone, And the nightingale was mute.— THOS. HERVEY — The Devil's Progress.
Why should the devil have all the good tunes?— ROWLAND HILL — Sermons.
Music was a thing of the soul-a rose-lipped shell that murmured of the eternal sea-a strange bird singing the songs of another shore.— J. G. HOLLAND — Plain Talks on
Familiar Subjects. Art and Life. Ere music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor.— KEATS — The Eve of St. Agnes. St. 3.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.— KEATS — Ode on a Grecian Urn.
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.— KEATS — The Eve of St. Agnes. St. 4.
I even think that, sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune.— CHARLES LAMB — A Chapter on Ears.
A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly, Upon the bosom of that harmony, And sailed and sailed incessantly, As if a petal from a wild-rose blown Had fluttered down upon that pool of tone, And boatwise dropped o' the convex side And floated down the glassy tide And clarified and glorified The solemn spaces where the shadows bide. From the warm concave of that fluted note Somewhat, half song, half odour forth did float As if a rose might somehow be a throat.— SIDNEY LANIER — The Symphony.
Music is in all growing things; And underneath the silky wings Of smallest insects there is stirred A pulse of air that must be heard; Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.— LATHROP — Music of Growth.
Of all the arts, great music is the art To raise the soul above all earthly storms.— LELAND — The Music Lesson of
Confucius. He is dead, the sweet musician! * * * * * * He has moved a little nearer To the Master of all music.— S. LONGFELLOW — Hiawatha. Pt. XV. L. 56.
Music is the universal language of mankind.— LONGFELLOW — Outre-Mer. Ancient
Spanish Ballads. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. и.— LONGFELLOW — Evangeline. Pt. I. 1.
Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.,— LONGFELLOW — The Day is Done. St. 8.
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.— LONGFELLOW — The Children of the Lord's Supper. L. 262.
Yea, music is the Prophet's art; Among the gifts that God hath sent, One of the most magnificent! LONGFELLOw-Christus. Pt. III. Second Interlude. St. 5. As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. I. L. 708.
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?— MILTON — Comus. L. 244.
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.— MILTON — L'Allegro. L. 136.
Ring out yc crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow, And with your ninefold harmony, Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.— MILTON — Hymn on the Nativity. St. 13.
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.— MILTON — Arcades. L. 68.
There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voiced quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes.— MILTON — Il Penseroso. L. 161.
Untwisting all the chains that tie the hidden soul of harmony.— MILTON — L'Allegro. L. 143.
Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?— MILTON — Areopagitica.
And music too-dear music! that can touch Beyond all else the soul that loves it much- Now heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.— MOORE — Lalla Rookh. The Veiled
Prophet of Khorassan. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.— MOORE — Dear Harp of My Country. St. 2.
If thou would'st have me sing and play As once I play'd and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung.— MOORE — If Thou Would'st Have Me Sing
and Play. The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled.— MOORE — The Harp That Once.
"This must be music," said he, "of the spears, For I am cursed if each note of it doesn't run through one!"— MOORE — The Fudge Family in Paris. Letter V. L. 28.
'Tis believ'd that this harp which I wake now for thee Was a siren of old who sung under the sea.— MOORE — The Origin of the Harp.
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!— FRANCES S. OSGOOD — Music.
How light the touches are that kiss The music from the chords of life!— COVENTRY PATMORE — By the Sea.
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.— POLLOK — Course of Time. Bk. IV. L. 674.
As some to Church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. S.— POPE — Essay on Criticism. L. 343.
By music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. * * * * * * Warriors she fires with animated sounds, Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds.— POPE — Ode on St. Cecilia's Day.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear, Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise And fill with spreading sounds the skies.— POPE — Ode on St. Cecilia's Day.
In a sadly pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain.— POPE — Ode on St. Cecilia's Day.
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.— POPE — Moral Essays. Ep. IV. L. 143.
Music resembles poetry: in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master-hand alone can reach.— POPE — Essay on Criticism. L. 143.
What woful stuff this madrigal would be In some starv'd hackney sonnetteer, or me! But let a Lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!— POPE — Essay on Criticism. L. 418.
Above the pitch, out of tune, and off the hinges. C.— RABELAIS — Works. Bk. IV. Ch. XIX.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell, Till waked and kindled by the Master's spell; And feeling hearts-touch them but lightlypour A thousand melodies unheard before!— SAM'L ROGERS — Human Life. L. 363.
And it will discourse most eloquent music.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 374.
Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by; In sweet music is such art: Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.— Shakespeare — Henry VIII. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 9.
Give me some music; music, moody food Of us that trade in love.— Shakespeare — Antony and Cleopatra. Act II. Sc. 5. L. 1.
How irksome is this music to my heart! When such stringsjar, what hope of harmony?— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. II. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 56.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony.— Shakespeare — Merchant of Venice. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 54.
I am advised to give her music o' mornings; they say it will penetrate.— Shakespeare — Cymbeline. Act II. Sc. 3. L. 12.
If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.— Shakespeare — Twelfth Night. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 1.
Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music.— Shakespeare — Merchant of Venice. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 43.
Music do I hear? Ha! ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is, When time is broke and no proportion kept!— Shakespeare — Richard II. Act V. Sc. 5. L. 41.
One whom the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony.— Shakespeare — Love's Labour's Lost. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 167.
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing: To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers, There had made a lasting spring.— Shakespeare — Henry VIII. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 3.
Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain'd! Was it not to refresh the mind of man, After his studies or his usual pain?— Shakespeare — Taming of the Shrew. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 9.
Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows!— Shakespeare — Troilus and Cressida. Act I. Sc. 3. L. 109.
The choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung Te Deum.— Shakespeare — Henry VIII. Act IV. Sc. 1. L. 90.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.— Shakespeare — Merchant of Venice. Act V. Sc. 1.
S. L. 83. This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air.— Shakespeare — Tempest. Act I. Sc. 2. L. 391.
Though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.— Shakespeare — Measure for Measure. Act IV. Sc. 1.
и. L. 14. Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays And twenty caged nightingales do sing. Taming of the Shrew. Induction. Sc. 2. L. 37. Musick! soft charm of heav'n and earth, Whence didst thou borrow thy auspicious birth? Or art thou of eternal date, Sire to thyself, thyself as old as Fate.— EDMUND SMITH — Ode in Praise of
Musick. 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. HORACE and JAMES SMITH-Rejected Addresses. The Theatre. L. 20. So dischord ofte in musick makes the sweeter lay.— SPENSER — Faerie Queene. Bk. III. Canto II. St. 15.
Music revives the recollections it would appease.— MADAME DE STAEL — Corinne. Bk. IX.
C. Ch. II. The gauger walked with willing foot, And aye the gauger played the flute; And what should Master Gauger play But Over the Hills and Far Away.— ROBT. LOUIS STEVENSON — Underwoods.
A Song of the Road. How her fingers went when they moved by note Through measures fine, as she marched them o'er The yielding plank of the ivory floor.— BENJ. F. TAYLOR — Songs of Yesterday. How the Brook Went to Mill. St. 3.
It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.— TENNYSON — Idylls of the King. Merlin and Vivien. L. 393.
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.— TENNYSON — The Lotos Eaters. Choric Song. St. 1.
Citharœdus Ridetur chordâ qui semper obernat eâdem. The musician who always plays on the same string, is laughed at.— HORACE — Ars Poetica. 355.
Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona Multi: sed omnes illacrimabiles Urgentur, ignotique longâ Nocte, carent quia vate sacro. Many heroes lived before Agamemnon, but they are all unmourned, and consigned to oblivion, because they had no bard to sing their praises.— HORACE — Carmina. IV. 9. 25.
Etiam singulorum fatigatio quamlibet se rudi modulatione solatur. Men, even when alone, lighten their labors by song, however rude it may be.— QUINTILIAN — De Institutione Oratoria.
I. 81. Cantabitis, Arcades montibus Hæc vestris: soli cantare periti Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiescant, Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores. Arcadians skilled in song will sing my woes upon the hills. Softly shall my bones repose, if you in future sing my loves upon your pipe.— VIRGIL — Ecloga. X. 31.
N. Regia, crede, mihi res est succurrere lapsis. Believe me it is noble to aid the afflicted.— OVID — Epistolæ Ex Ponto. II. 9. 11.
१. Natura vero nihil hominibus brevitate vitæ præstitit melius. Nature has given man no better thing than shortness of life. PLINY the Elder-Historia Naturais. VII. 51. 3. Ut natura dedit, sic omnis recta figura. Every form as nature made it is correct. S.— PROPERTIUS — Elegiæ. II. 18. 25.
Tanto è miser l'uom quant' ei si riputa. Man is only miserable so far as he thinks himself so.— SANNAZARO — Ecloga Octava.
Blasen ist nicht flöten, ihr müsst die Finger bewegen. To blow is not to play on the flute; you must move the fingers. S.— GOETHE — Sprüche in Prosa. III.
Die Baukunst ist eine erstarrte Musik. Architecture is frozen music.— GOETHE — Conversation with Eckermann.
March 23, 1829. Musik ist Poesie der Luft. Music is the poetry of the air.— JEAN PAUL RICHTER
Sie zog tief in sein Herz, wie die Melodie eines Liedes, die aus der Kindheit heraufklingt. It sank deep into his heart, like the melody of a song sounding from out of childhood's days.— JEAN PAUL RICHTER — Hesperus. XII.