58
Thou hast been round us like a viewless spirit,
Known only by the music on the air;
The leaf or flowers which thou hast named, inherit
A beauty known but from thy breathing there;
For thou didst on them fling thy strong emotion,
The likeness from itself the fond heart gave;
As planets from afar look down on ocean,
And give their own sweet image to the wave.
And thou didst bring from foreign lands their treasures;
As floats thy various melody along,
We know the softness of Italian measures,
And the grave cadence of Castilian song.
A general bond of union is the poet,
By its immortal verse is language known,
And for the sake of song do others know it—
One glorious poet makes the world his own.
And thou—how far thy gentle sway extended!
The heart's sweet empire over land and sea;
Many a stranger and far flower was blended
In the soft wreath that glory bound for thee.
The echoes of the Susquehanna's waters
Paused in the pine-woods, words of thine to hear;
And to the wide Atlantic's younger daughters
Thy name was lovely, and thy song was dear.
Was not this purchased all too dearly?—never
Can fame atone for all that fame hath cost.
We see the goal, but know not the endeavour,
Nor what fond hopes have on the way been lost.
What do we know of the unquiet pillow,
By the worn cheek and tearful eyelids prest,
When thoughts chase thoughts, like the tumultuous billow,
Whose very light and foam reveal unrest?
We say the song is sorrowful, but know not
What may have left that sorrow on the song;
However mournful words may be, they show not
The whole extent of wretchedness and wrong.
They cannot paint the long sad hours passed only
In vain regrets o'er what we feel we are.
Alas! the kingdom of the lute is lonely
Cold is the worship coming from afar.
Yet what is mind in woman but revealing
In sweet clear light the hidden world below,
