That, pining, mourns, and, mourning, longs in vain
For what's beyond the range
Of aught we know on earth—
Then sleeps or dies—mysterious from its birth!
'Tis in the seas and silent skies!
'Tis in each star that there doth rise!
In all things, small or great,
Of high or low estate!
It rises deep and solemn from the breast
Of brooding Nature, when at rest—
Unheard by Man, and yet intense
To some mysterious sense
That lies within;
A voice of pathos—pleading—as to win
An audience of Divine intelligence;
A mute appeal,
Yet eloquent, it doth reveal
A spirit there, that in its fever, moans and sighs
For unknown remedies!
Thus lives and dies,
Yet ever lives again,
As tending to some higher plane,
This sweetly urgent Voice, of deep, pathetic pain!
Beauty enhances Harmony,
And Harmony responds with equal glee,
Till both are interwoven in a sweeter dream!
Wherefore each common sight we see
Is linked to some sweet minstrelsy!
For oh! the whole intricate scheme
Of Voicing Nature tends to Good,
To Good that knoweth no alloy!
