till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the
whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon
till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes
reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.

We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic
freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the
northern skies. We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright
and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their
distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch
over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses
them to life and consciousness. In view of objects and scenes like
these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can
express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the
full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its
cage.

This is what we call music of the mind. Yet when no love to the Creator
mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order. But
when an individual is brought to realize and "believe with all his
heart" that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and
sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop
the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his
throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to
ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his
blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest
stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his
mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to
any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the
noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper.