Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/244

They have no garment for the thought
    That springs to meet its Sire,
No tone to flush the glowing cheek,
    Or fan Devotion's fire;

Yet upward to the Eternal Throne
    The spirit's sigh may soar,
As sure as if the wing of speech
    Its hallowed burden bore.

Were language theirs, perchance their tale
    Of treasured grief or fear,
Might cold or unresponsive fall
    Even on a brother's ear,—

So may they grave upon their minds
    In youth's unfolding day,
'T is better to commune with Heaven
    Than with their kindred clay.

The pomp of words may sometimes clog
    The ethereal spirit's flight,
But in the silence of their souls
    Burns one long Sabbath light,—

If God doth in that temple dwell,
    Their fancied loss is gain;
Ye perfect listeners to His voice!
    Say, is our pity vain?