Poems, Sacred and Moral/Ode to the Harp of Cowper
ODE[1]
TO THE HARP OF COWPER.
While empty sounds incessant ringFrom many a human lyre;Why, Harp of Cowper, sleeps thy string,Touch'd with ethereal fire?
Unchased by yonder feeble sun,Have vapours dank of earthQuench'd, ere thy master's course be run,That spark of heavenly birth?
The spark from Heaven can never die.—Has then the hallow'd flame,Of mortals weary, sought the sky,Returning whence it came?
No, never shalt thou mourn the blazeFrom thy vibrations fled.Lo, still its lambent glory playsAround thy master's head.
Seest thou forlorn thy master standPierced by the shaft of pain?Hath slow disease unnerved the hand,That woke thy holy strain?
Yes, Pain hath bent and twang'd her bow,And launch'd her keenest dart:And pale disease with footstep slowHath mined thy master's heart.
O, soon may He, whose face more brightThe clouds of woe reveal,Recal the eye's declining light,The wounded spirit heal!
Yet, for his hidden ways in vainOur labouring thoughts explore;Perchance He wills thy holy strainTo sound on earth no more.
In sleep then unrepining lie,If such be Heaven's decree,Till, for "the twinkling of an eye"[2]Thy master sleep with thee.
A little while thy sleep prolong,Till hence with him removed:Then wake to raise the eternal songBefore the God he loved.