EARLY YEARS. 45
voice, which was in conversation an echo of the soul's harmony, was powerful in music, which she had been taught scientifically when a child. Many were the pieces in which I was instructed to accompany her, sacred, patriotic, or pathetic. Sometimes she would honor me by enumerating quite a catalogue, and al- lowing me to choose.
" My child, shall it be ' Pompey's Ghost to his Wife Cornelia,' or ' While Shepherds watched their Flocks by Night,' or ' The poor, distracted Lady,' or ' In- dulgent Parents, dear,' or ' Solitude ? ' " The last- named one was often my selection ; the sweet tune and the flowing words of the lyric are still fresh in memory, though never heard save from her sacred lips :
" What voice is this I hear
From yonder grove, That charms my listening ear,
And wakes my love ? Sure 'tis some heavenly guest Inviting me to rest On my Redeemer's breast,
Sent from above."
Did space allow I would gladly copy the whole, which I have never seen in print. And as I in- scribe these few words, there comes with them such a gush of happiness, such a thrill of melody, as though an angel hovered near May it not be so ?