Poems (Edwards)/The Orator
THE ORATOR.
He stood amid an anxious throng, His brow was pale and high,And melancholy was the light Of his dark searching eye—A trembling smile was on his lip, A smile of light and love,As if the thoughts that filled his soul Were gleaming from above.
He spoke, and every lip was hushed, And every brow was raised,And every eye in that dense throng Upon the speaker gazed;And every heart with rapture thrilled, To hear the words that fell,Like the mysterious voice that fills The murmuring ocean shell.
Not softer melts a bird's low song Upon the summer breeze—Not gentler dies that breeze away Among the trembling trees—Than came the words, the thrilling words, From his deep throbbing heart,And yet he knew not, gifted one! The power of his high art.
Now, like the sounding ocean surge, Came forth his burning words;Now, like the voice of many harps, Now, like the voice of birds;Now, like the murmur of a lute, Or soft Æolian strings,When evening zephyrs pass them by And touch them with their wings.
He was most gifted, yet his brow Had something of despair,Alas! alas! what could have left So much of sadness there? He spoke to me of earlier years, And trembled like a bird,When, 'mid the music and the mirth, The "stilly night" he heard.
Ah! he was sad, I knew it well, Tho' much he strove to hideThe gush of feeling that swelled up His bosom like a tide;Some memories sad'ning in his heart, Were wakened by that strain;He smiled most sadly, but his smile Was deeply fraught with pain;And then he turned aside, and—I— Ne'er saw his face again.