That Juno yearned with no diviner soul,
To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
Th' exceeding mystery of the loveliness
Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look
Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face
'Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seemed
Too feeble, or, to melancholy eyes,
One that has parted with his soul for pride,
And in the sable secret lived forlorn."

"'To show the depth and identicalness of the impression which he made
upon everybody, foreign or native, an Italian who stood near me said
to himself, after a sigh, "O Dio!" and this had not been said long
when another person, in the same manner, uttered "O Christ!" Musicians
pressed forward from behind the scenes to get as close to him as
possible; and they could not sleep at night for thinking of
him.'"--_Timbs's Anecdote Biography_.

THACKERAY ON ORCHESTRAL MUSIC.

"I wish I were a poet; you should have a description of all this in
verse, and welcome. But if I were a musician! Let us see what we
should do as musicians. First, you should hear the distant sound of a
bugle, which sound should float away; that is one of the heralds of
the morning, flying southward. Then another should issue from the
eastern gates; and now the grand _reveille_ should grow, sweep past
your ears (like the wind aforesaid), go on, dying as it goes. When, as
it dies, my stringed instruments come in. These to the left of the
orchestra break into a soft slow movement, the music swaying drowsily
from side to side, as it were, with a noise like the rustling of
boughs. It must not be much of a noise, however, for my stringed
instruments to the right have begun the very song of the morning. The
bows tremble upon the strings, like the limbs of a dancer, who,
a-tiptoe, prepares to bound into her ecstasy of motion. Away! The song
soars into the air as if it had the wings of a kite. Here swooping,
there swooping, wheeling upward, falling suddenly, checked, poised for
a moment on quivering wings, and again away. It is waltz-time, and you
hear the Hours dancing to it. Then the horns. Their melody overflows
into the air richly, like honey of Hybla; it wafts down in lazy gusts,
like the scent of the thyme from that hill. So my stringed instruments
to the left cease rustling; listen a little while; catch the music of
those others, and follow it. Now for the rising of the lark!
Henceforward it is a chorus, and he is the leader thereof. Heave