Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Musical Box

by Hannah Flagg Gould

For works with similar titles, see The Musical Box.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

My little friend,'tis a stormy day,
 But we are left together;
Ito listen, and thou to play;
 So we 'll not heed the weather.
The clouds may rise and the tempest come
 The winds and the rain may beat:
With thee to gently play 'Sweet Home,'
 I feel that home is sweet!

The yellow leaf, from the shivering tree,
 On Autumn's blast is flying;
But a spirit of life enshrined in thee,
 While all abroad. is dying,
Calls up the shadows of many a year
 With their joys that were bright as brief;
And, if perchance it start the tear,
 'T is not the tear of grief.

'T is a hallowed offering of the soul,
 From her purest fountain gushing;
A warm, bright gift, that has spurned control,
 To the eye for freedom rushing;
As music's angel, hovering near
 To touch the tender key,
The numbers of a higher sphere
 Is pouring forth from thee.

And while his powerful, magic hand
 O'er memory's chords is sweeping,
To wake and bring from the spirit-land
 The things that else were sleeping—
It lifts my thoughts to a world to come,
 Where those parted here shall meet,
From the storms of life secure at home,
 And sing, that home is sweet!