Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Musical Box
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!