 | The forest minstrel |  |
228
TO MRS. SIGOURNEY, (1844.)
To me thou seem'st a beauteous shell,
Thrown out upon some fairy isle,
In whose deep heart a spirit band
Are hymning all the while.
Rich music, wreathed of sun and shade,
Of love and grief, of joy and wo,
A thrilling of all tender chords
That human bosoms know;
And woven through each mellow lay
The same rich tone for ever rings,
The music of the ocean lyre
Swept by ethereal wings.
Yes, though upon the mountain top
The shell of ocean seems to sleep,
Still murmurs from its inmost cell
The music of the deep.
Thrown out upon some fairy isle,
In whose deep heart a spirit band
Are hymning all the while.
Rich music, wreathed of sun and shade,
Of love and grief, of joy and wo,
A thrilling of all tender chords
That human bosoms know;
And woven through each mellow lay
The same rich tone for ever rings,
The music of the ocean lyre
Swept by ethereal wings.
Yes, though upon the mountain top
The shell of ocean seems to sleep,
Still murmurs from its inmost cell
The music of the deep.
And I have deemed thee like a bird
Brought from some far-off sunny land,
Where sport in never-fading groves
The tuneful-hearted band;
Where melody the whole day long
Lies languid on the scented air,
And purple evening bears to heaven
Rich wreaths of chaunted pray'r.
Though captive in this wintry clime,
And taught full many a foreign song,
Which thy rich mellow cadences
Delightfully prolong;
The native notes, so wild and sweet,
That dwell in thy deserted home,
Gush forth unbidden from thy heart,
Where'er thy pinions roam.
Brought from some far-off sunny land,
Where sport in never-fading groves
The tuneful-hearted band;
Where melody the whole day long
Lies languid on the scented air,
And purple evening bears to heaven
Rich wreaths of chaunted pray'r.
229
And taught full many a foreign song,
Which thy rich mellow cadences
Delightfully prolong;
The native notes, so wild and sweet,
That dwell in thy deserted home,
Gush forth unbidden from thy heart,
Where'er thy pinions roam.
For all the breathings of thy lyre,
Whate'er the lay, whate'er the theme,
Be it the moan of chill despair,
Or young life's passion dream;
Or if maternity's deep love
Gush tremblingly o'er the thrilling string,
Or maidenhood's pure trust and truth,
And fervent worshipping;
Or the low wail above the bier
Where the heart's jewels broken lie;
Or the sweet hymn of holy Hope
That bears the soul on high;—
All breathe of heaven; a gentle strain
Of pure and earnest piety;
The music of thy spirit-home
Pervades thy minstrelsy.
Whate'er the lay, whate'er the theme,
Be it the moan of chill despair,
Or young life's passion dream;
Or if maternity's deep love
Gush tremblingly o'er the thrilling string,
Or maidenhood's pure trust and truth,
And fervent worshipping;
Or the low wail above the bier
Where the heart's jewels broken lie;
Or the sweet hymn of holy Hope
That bears the soul on high;—
All breathe of heaven; a gentle strain
Of pure and earnest piety;
The music of thy spirit-home
Pervades thy minstrelsy.
| The forest minstrel | |