 | The lost pleiad ; and other poems |  |
CAROL.
“Oh! that my song could emulate my soul!”
Young.
Young.
Oh! for an angel's wing,
That, like the frightened dove,
My spirit might, exultant, spring,
And soar to Heaven above!
That, like the frightened dove,
My spirit might, exultant, spring,
And soar to Heaven above!
Swift as an arrow's flight,
Shot from an Indian's bow,
My spirit, like the beams of light,
Would soar from earth below.
Shot from an Indian's bow,
My spirit, like the beams of light,
Would soar from earth below.
As when an eagle springs,
Snatching from earth his prey—
My soul's emancipated wings
Would soar to Endless Day!
Snatching from earth his prey—
My soul's emancipated wings
Would soar to Endless Day!
From all earth's vanities—
Her guilt—her lying charms—
Up through the blue, the bending skies,
To my dear Saviour's arms!
Her guilt—her lying charms—
Up through the blue, the bending skies,
To my dear Saviour's arms!
The hounds of grief no more
Should follow me in flight,
When wounded, panting, weak, on shore,
To that sweet Land of Light!
Should follow me in flight,
When wounded, panting, weak, on shore,
To that sweet Land of Light!
But such sweet songs of love
Out of my heart should pour,
A deluge of delight above
Should spread from shore to shore.
Out of my heart should pour,
A deluge of delight above
Should spread from shore to shore.
My soul would, free from ill,
With power to spirits given,
Look down from God's most Holy Hill!
On all the scenes of Heaven!
With power to spirits given,
Look down from God's most Holy Hill!
On all the scenes of Heaven!
Middletown, Conn., Aug. 8th, 1841.
| The lost pleiad ; and other poems | |